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; • 








William Taylor Adams. (Oliver Optic.} 




NOW OR 
NEVER 


rne adventures or 
BOBBY BRIGHT 


OLIVER OPTIC 


CHICAGO 


W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


36110 


Library of ConaresR 

Two Copies Received I 

AUG 18 1900 

Copyright entry 

SECOND COPY. 

DtHvered to 

. ORDER DIVISION, 

AUG 25 1900- 


A ' 

n> 




%- 


7359 



, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Company 


o 

O 


PREFACE 


The story contained in this volume is a rec- 
ord of youthful struggles, not only in the 
world without, but in the world within ; and the 
success of the little hero is not merely a gath- 
ering up of wealth and honors, but a triumph 
over the temptations that beset the pilgrim 
on the plain of life. The attainment of 
worldly prosperity is not the truest victory; 
and the author has endeavored to make the 
interest of his story depend more on the hero’s 
devotion to principles than on his success in 
business. 

Bobby Bright is a smart boy; perhaps the 
reader will think he is altogether too smart for 
one of his years. This is a progressive age, and 
anything which Young America may do need 
not surprise any person. That little gentle- 
man is older than his father, knows more than 
his mother, can talk politics, smoke cigars, and 
drive a 2:40 horse. He orders “one stew” 
with as much ease as a man of forty, and can 
even pronounce correctly the villainous names 
of sundry French and German wines and 
liquors. One would suppose, to hear him talk, 
that he had been intimate with Socrates and 
Solon, with Napoleon and Noah Webster; in 
3 


4 


PREFACE. 


short, that whatever he did not know was not 
worth knowing. 

In the face of these manifestations of exu- 
berant genius, it would be absurd to accuse 
the author of making his hero do too much. 
All he has done is to give this genius a right 
direction; and for politics, cigars, 2:40 horses, 
and “one stew,” he has substituted the duties 
of a rational and accountable being, regarding 
them as better fitted to develop the young 
gentleman’s mind, heart, and soul. 

Bobby Bright is something more than a 
smart boy. He is a good boy, and makes a 
true man. His daily life is the moral of the 
story, and the author hopes that his devotion 
to principle will make a stronger impression 
upon the mind of the young reader, than even 
the most exciting incidents of his eventful 
career 

WILLIAM T. ADAMS. 

Dorchester. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. In which Bobby goes a fishing and catches a 

Horse 7 

II. In which Bobby blushes several Times, 

and does a Sum in Arithmetic 15 

III. In which the Little Black House is bought, 

but not paid for 24 

IV. In which Bobby gets out of one Scrape, and 

into another 32 

V. In which Bobby gives his Note for Sixty 

Dollars 42 

VI. In which Bobby sets out on his Travels. ... 52 

VII. In which Bobby stands up for certain 

“Inalienable Rights” 60 

VIII. In which Mr. Timmins is astonished, and 

Bobby dines in Chestnut Street 69 

IX. In which Bobby opens various Accounts, 

and wins his first Victory 78 

X. In which Bobby is a little too smart 87 

XI. In which Bobby strikes a Balance, and re- 
turns to Riverdale 96 

XII. In which Bobby astonishes sundry Persons, 

and pays Part of his Note 105 

5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


XIII. In which Bobby declines a Copartnership, 

and visits B again 116 

XIV. In which Bobby’s Air Castle is upset, and 

Tom Spicer takes to the Woods 127 

XV. In which Bobby gets into a £crape, and 

Tom Spicer turns up again 137 

XVI. In which Bobby finds “it is an ill wind that 

blows no one any good.” 147 

XVII. In which Tom has a good Time, and Bobby 

meets with a terrible Misfortune 156 

XVIII. In which Bobby takes French Leave, and 

camps in the Woods 167 

XIX. In which Bobby has a narrow Escape, and 

goes to Sea with Sam Ray 177 

XX. In which the Clouds blow over, and Bobby 

is himself again 188 

XXI. In which Bobby steps off the Stage, and the 

Author must finish “Now or Never” 199 


CHAPTER I. 


IN WHICH BOBBY GOES A FISHING, AND CATCHES 
A HORSE. 

“By jolly! I’ve got a bite!” exclaimed Tom 
Spicer, a rough, hard-looking boy, who sat 
on a rock by the river’s side, anxiously watch- 
ing the cork float on his line. 

“Catch him then,” quietly responded Bobby 
Bright, who occupied another rock near the 
first speaker, as he pulled up a large pout, 
and, without any appearance of exultation, 
proceeded to unhook and place him in his 
basket. 

“You area lucky dog, Bob,” added Tom, 
as he glanced into the basket of his compan- 
ion, which now contained six good-sized fishes. 
“I haven’t caught one yet. ” 

“You don’t fish deep enough.” 

“I fish on the bottom.” 

“That is too deep. ” 

“It don’t make any difference howl fish; 
it is all luck. ” 

“Not all luck, Tom; there is something in 
doing it right.” 

“I shall not catch a fish,” continued Tom, in 
despair. 

“You'll catch something else, though, when 
you go home. ” 


7 


8 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Will I?” 

“I’m afraid you will.” 

“Who says I will?” 

“Didn’t you tell me you were ‘hooking 
jack’?” 

“Who is going to know anything about it?” 

“The master will know you are absent.” 

“I shall tell him my mother sent me over to 
the village on an errand. ’ ’ 

“I never knew a fellow to ‘hook jack,’ yet, 
without getting found out.” 

“I shall not get found out unless you blow 
on me; and you wouldn’t be mean enough to 
do that;” and Tom glanced uneasily at his 
companion. 

“Suppose your mother should ask me if I 
had seen you?” 

“You would tell her you have not, of 
course. ” 

“Of course?” 

“Why, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you do as 
much as that for a fellow?” 

“It would be a lie.” 

“A lie! Humph!” 

“I wouldn’t lie for any fellow,” replied | 
Bobby, stoutly, as he pulled in his seventh figh, i 
and placed him in the basket. 

“Wouldn’t you?” 

“No, I wouldn’t.” 

“Then, let me tell you this; if you peach on 
me, I’ll smash your head.” 

Tom Spicer removed one hand from the fish 
pole, and, doubling his fist, shook it with en- 
ergy at his companion. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


9 


“Smash away,” replied Bobby, coolly. “I 
shall not go out of my way to tell tales; but if 
your mother or the master asks me the ques- 
tion, I shall not lie.” 

“Won’t you?” 

“No, I won’t. ” 

“I’ll bet you will;” and Tom dropped his 
fish pole, and was on the point of jumping over 
to the rock occupied by Bobby, when the float 
of the former disappeared beneath the surface 
of the water. 

“You have got a bite,” coolly interposed 
Bobby, pointing to the line. 

Tom snatched the pole, and with a violent 
twitch, pulled up a big pout ; but his violence 
jerked the hook out of the fish’s mouth, and 
he disappeared beneath the surface of the 
river. 

“Just my luck!” muttered Tom. 

“Keep cool, then. ” 

“I will fix you yet. ” 

“All right; but you had better not let go 
your pole again, or you will lose another 
fish.” 

“I’m bound to smash your head, though.” 

“No, you won’t. ” 

“Won’t I?” 

“Two can play at that game. ” 

“Do you stump me?” 

“No; I don’t want to fight; I won’t fight if 
I can help it. ” 

“I’ll bet you won’t!” sneered Tom. 

“But I will defend myself.” 

“Humph!” 


10 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Iam not a liar, and the fear of a flogging 
shall not make me tell a lie. * ’ 

“Go to Sunday school — don’t you?” 

“I do; and besides that, my mother always 
taught me never to tell lies. ’ ’ 

“Come! you needn’t preach to me. By and 
by, you will call me a liar. ’ ’ 

“No, I won’t; but just now you told me you 
meant to lie to your mother, and to the mas- 
ter. ' ’ 

“What if I did? That is none of your bus- 
iness.’’ 

“It is my business when you want me to lie 
for you, though; and I shall not do it. ’’ 

“Blow on me, and see what you will get.” 

“I don’t mean to blow on you.’’ 

“Yes, you do.’’ 

“I will not lie about it; that’s all.” 

“By jolly! see that horse!” exclaimed Tom, 
suddenly, as he pointed to the road leading 
to Riverdale center. 

“By gracious!” added Bobby, dropping his 
fishpole, as he saw the horse running at a 
furious rate up the road from the village. 

The mad animal was attached to a chaise, in 
which was seated a lady, whose frantic shrieks 
pierced the soul of our youthful hero. 

The course of the road was by the river’s 
side for nearly half a mile, and crossed the 
stream at a wooden bridge but a few rods 
from the place where the boys were fishing. 

Bobby Bright’s impulses were noble and 
generous; and without stopping to consider 
the peril to which the attempt would expose 


NOW OR NEVER. 


11 


him, he boldly resolved to stop that horse, or 
let the animal dash him to pieces on the 
bridge. 

“Now or never !” shouted he, as he leaped 
from the rock, and ran with all his might to 
the bridge. 

The shrieks of the lady rang in his ears, and 
seemed to command him, with an authority 
which he could not resist, to stop the horse. 
There was no time for deliberation; and, in- 
deed, Bobby did not want any deliberation. 
The lady was in danger; if the horse’s flight 
was not checked, she would be dashed in 
pieces; and what then could excuse him for 
neglecting his duty? Not the fear of broken 
limbs, of mangled flesh, or even of a sudden 
and violent death. 

It is true Bobby did not think of any of these 
things ; though, if he had, it would have made 
no difference with him. He was a boy who 
would not fight except in self-defense, but he 
had the courage to do a deed which might have 
made the stoutest heart tremble with terror. 

Grasping a broken rail as he leaped over the 
fence, he planted himself in the middle of the 
bridge, which was not more than half as wide 
as the road at each end of it, to await the com- 
ing of the furious animal. On he came, and 
the piercing shrieks of the affrighted lady 
nerved him to the performance of his perilous 
duty. 

The horse approached him at a mad run, and 
his feet struck the loose planks of the bridge. 
The brave boy then raised his big club, and 


12 


NOW OR NEVER. 


brandished it with all his might in the air, 
Probably the horse did not mean anything 
very bad; was only frightened, and had no 
wicked intentions towards the lady ; so that, 
when a new danger menaced him in front, he 
stopped suddenly, and with so much violence 
as to throw the lady forward from her' seat 
upon the dasher of the chaise. He gave a long 
snort, which was his way of expressing his fear. 
He was evidently astonished at the sudden 
barrier to his further progress, and commenced 
running back. 

“Save me!” screamed the lady. 

“I will, ma’am; don’t be scared!” replied 
Bobby, confidently, as he dropped his club, 
and grasped the bridle of the horse, just as he 
was on the point of whirling round to escape 
by the way he had come. 

“Stop him! Do stop him!” cried the lady. 

“Whoa!” said Bobby in gentle tones, as he 
patted the trembling horse on his neck. 
“Whoa, good horse! Be quiet! Whoa!” 

The animal, in his terror, kept running 
backward and forward ! but Bobby persevered 
in his gentle treatment, and finally soothed 
him, so that he stood quiet enough for the 
lady to get out of the chaise. 

“What a miracle that I am alive!” exclaimed 
she, when she realized that she stood once 
more upon the firm earth. 

“Yes, ma’am, it is lucky he didn’t break the 
chaise. Whoa! Good horse! Stand quiet!” 

“What a brave little fellow you are!” said 
the lady, as soon as she could recover her 


NOW OR NEVER. 


13 


breath so as to express her admiration of 
Bobby's bold act. 

“O, I don’t mind it,” replied he, blushing 
like a rose in June. ‘‘Did he run away from 
you?” 

“No; my father left me in the chaise for a 
moment while he went into a store in the vil- 
lage, and a teamster who was passing by 
snapped his whip, which frightened Kate so 
that she started off at the top of her speed. I 
was so terrified, that I screamed with all my 
might, which frightened her the more. The 
more I screamed, the faster she ran.” 

“I dare say. Good horse! Whoa, Kate!” 

“She is a splendid creature; she never did 
such a thing before. My father will think I 
am killed.” 

By this time, Kate had become quite reason- 
able, and seemed very much obliged to Bobby 
for preventing her from doing mischief to her 
mistress; for she looked at the lady with a 
glance of satisfaction, which her deliverer in- 
terpreted as a promise to behave better in fu- 
ture. He relaxed his grasp upon the bridle, 
patted her upon the neck, and said sundry 
pleasant things to encourage her in her 
assumed purpose of doing better. Kate 
appeared to understand Bobby’s kind words, 
and declared as plainly as a horse could declare 
that she would be sober and tractable. 

“Now, ma’am, if you will get into the chaise 
again, I think Kate will let me drive her down 
to the village. ” 

“O, dear! I should not dare to do so.” 


14 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Then, if you please, I will drive down 
alone, so as to let your father know that you 
are safe. ’ ’ 

“Do.” 

“I am sure he must feel very bad, and I may 
save him a great deal of pain, for a man can 
suffer a great deal in a very short time. ’ ’ 

“You are a little philosopher, as well as a 
hero ; and if you are not afraid of Kate, you 
may do as you wish. ’ ’ 

“She seems very gentle now;’’ and Bobby 
turned her round, and got into the chaise. 

“Be very careful,” said the lady. 

“I will.’’ 

Bobby took the reins, and Kate, true to the 
promise she had virtually made, started off at 
a round pace towards the village. 

He had not gone more than a quarter of a 
mile of the distance when he met a wagon con- 
taining three men, one of whom was the lady’s 
father. The gestures which he made assured 
Bobby he had found the person whom he 
sought, and he stopped. 

“My daughter! Where is she?” gasped the 
gentleman, as he leaped from the wagon. 

“She is safe, sir,’’ replied Bobby, with all 
the enthusiasm of his warm nature. 

“Thank God!’’ added the gentleman de- 
voutly, as he placed himself in the chaise by 
the side of Bobby. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

IN WHICH BOBBY BLUSHES SEVERAL TIMES AND 
DOES A SUM IN ARITHMETIC. 

Mr. Bayard, the owner of the horse, and the 
father of the lady whom Bobby had saved from 
impending death, was too much agitated to say 
much, even to the bold youth who had ren- 
dered him such a signal service. He could 
scarcely believe the intelligence which the boy 
brought him ; it seemed too good to be true. 
He had assured himself that Ellen — for that 
was the young lady’s name — was killed, or 
dreadfully injured. 

Kate was driven at the top of her speed, 
and in a few moments reached the bridge, 
where Ellen was awaiting his arrival. 

“Here I am, father, alive and unhurt!” 
cried Ellen, as Mr. Bayard stopped the horse. 

“Thank Heaven, my child!” replied the 
glad father, embracing his daughter. “I was 
sure you were killed.” 

“No, father; thanks to this bold youth, I am 
uninjured. ’ ’ 

“I am under very great obligations to you, 
young man, ” continued Mr. Bayard, grasping 
Bobby’s hand. 

“O, never mind, sir;” and Bobby blushed 


16 


NOW OR NEVER. 


just as he had blushed when the young lady 
spoke to him. 

“We shall never forget you — shall we, 
father?” added Ellen. 

“No, my child; and I shall endeavor to 
repay, to some slight extent, our indebted- 
ness to him. But you have not yet told me 
how you were saved.” 

“O, I merely stopped the horse; that’s all,” 
answered Bobby, modestly. 

“Yes, father, but he placed himself right 
before Kate when she was almost flying over 
the ground. When I saw him, I was certain 
that he would lose his life, or be horribly man- 
gled for his boldness,” interposed Ellen. 

“It was a daring deed, young man, to place 
yourself before an affrighted horse in that 
manner,” said Mr. Bayard. 

“I didn’t mind it, sir.” 

“And then he flourished a big club, almost 
as big as he is himself, in the air, which made 
Kate pause in her mad career, when my de- 
liverer here grasped her by the bit and held 
her.” 

“It was well and bravely done.” 

“That it was, father; not many men would 
have been bold enough to do what he did,” 
added Ellen, with enthusiasm. 

“Very true; and I feel that I am indebted 
to him for your safety. What is your name, 
young man?” 

“Robert Bright, sir.” 

Mr. Bayard took from his pocket several 
pieces of gold, which he offered to Bobby. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


17 


“No, I thank you, sir,” replied Bobby, 
blushing. 

“What! as proud as you are bold?” 

“I don’t like to be paid for doing my 
duty. ’ ’ 

“Bravo! You are a noble little fellow! 
But you must take this money, not as a reward 
for what you have done, but as a testimonial 
of my gratitude. ’ ’ 

“I would rather not, sir.” 

“Do take it, Robert,” added Ellen. 

“I don’t like to take it. It looks mean to 
take money for doing one’s duty.” 

“Take it, Robert, to please me,” and the 
young lady smiled so sweetly that Bobby’s 
resolution began to give way. “Only to please 
me, Robert.” 

“I will, to please you; but I don’t feel right 
about it. ’ ’ 

“You must not be too proud, Robert,” said 
Mr. Bayard, as he put the gold pieces into his 
hand. 

“I am not proud, sir; only I don’t like to be 
paid for doing my duty. ’ ’ 

“Not paid, my young friend. Consider that 
you have placed me under an obligation to 
you for life. This money is only an expres- 
sion of my own and my daughter’s feeling. It 
is but a small sum, but I hope you will permit 
me to do something more for you, when you 
need it. You will regard me as your friend 
as long as you live. ” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“When you want any assistance of any kind, 

2 Now or Never 


18 


NOW OR NEVER. 


come to me. I live in Boston; here is my 
business card. ’ ’ 

Mr. Bayard handed him a card, on which 
Bobby read, “F. Bayard & Co., Booksellers 
and Publishers, No. — Washington Street, 
Boston. " 

“You are very kind, sir." 

1 4 1 want you should come to Boston and see 
us, too," interposed Ellen. “I should be de- 
lighted to show you the city, to take you to the 
Athenaeum and the Museum. ’ ’ 

“Thank you." 

Mr. Bayard inquired of Bobby about his par- 
ents, where he lived, and about the circum- 
stances of his family. He then took out his 
memorandum book, in which he wrote the 
boy’s name and residence. 

4 4 1 am sorry to leave you now, Robert, but I 
have over twenty miles to ride to-day. I 
should be glad to visit your mother, and next 
time I come to Riverdale, I shall certainly do 
so. " 

“Thank you, sir; my mother is a very poor 
woman, but she will be glad to see you." 

“Now, good-by, Robert." 

“Good-by," repeated Ellen. 

“Good-by. " 

Mr. Bayard drove off, leaving Bobby stand- 
ing on the bridge with the gold pieces in his 
hand. 

“Here’s luck!" said Bobby, shaking the 
coin. “Won’t mother’s eyes stick out when 
she sees these shiners? There are no such 
shiners in the river as these. ’ ’ 


NOW OR NEVER. 


19 


Bobby was astonished, and the more he 
gazed at the gold pieces, the more bewildered 
he became. He had never held so much 
money in his hand before. There were three 
large coins and one smaller one. He turned 
them over and over, and finally ascertained 
that the large coins were ten-dollar pieces, and 
the smaller one a five-dollar piece. Bobby 
was not a great scholar, but he knew enough 
of arithmetic to calculate the value of his 
treasure. He was so excited, however, that 
he did not arrive at the conclusion half so 
quick as most of my young readers would have 
done. 

“Thirty-five dollars!” exclaimed Bobby, 
when the problem was solved. ‘‘Gracious!” 

“Hallo, Bob!” shouted Tom Spicer, who had 
got tired of fishing; besides, the village clock 
was just striking twelve, and it was time for 
him to go home. 

Bobby made no answer, but hastily tying the 
gold pieces up in the corner of his handker- 
chief, he threw the broken rail he had used in 
stopping the horse where it belonged, and 
started for the place where he had left his fish- 
ing apparatus. 

“Hallo, Bob!” 

“Well, Tom?” 

“Stopped him — didn’t you?” 

“1 did.” 

“You were a fool; he might have killed 
you. ’ ’ 

“So he might; but 1 didn’t stop to think of 
that. The lady’s life was in danger. ” 


20 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“What of that?” 

“Everything, I should say.” 

“Did he give you anything?” 

“Yes;” and Bobby continued his walk down 
to the river’s side. 

“I say, what did he give you, Bobby?” per- 
sisted Tom, following him. 

“O, he gave me a good deal of money.” 

“How much?” 

“I want to get my fish line now; I will tell 
you all about it some other time,” replied 
Bobby, who rather suspected the intentions of 
his companion. 

“Tell me now; how much was it?” 

“Never mind it now.” 

“Humph! Do you think I mean to rob 
you?” 

“No.” 

“Ain’t you going halves?” 

“Why should I?” 

“Wasn’t I with you?” 

“Were you?” 

“Wasn’t I fishing with you?” 

“You did not do anything about stopping 
the horse. ’ ’ 

“I would, if I hadn’t been afraid to go up 
to the road. ’ ’ 

“Afraid?” 

“Somebody might have seen me, and they 
would have known that I was hooking jack.” 

* “Then you ought not to share the money.” 

“Yes, I had. When a fellow is with you, he 
ought to have half. It is mean not to give 
him half.” 




NOW OR NEVER. 


21 


“If you had done anything to help stop the 
horse, I would have shared with you. But 
you didn’t. ” 

“What of that?’’ 

Bobby was particularly sensitive in regard 
to the charge of meanness. His soul was a 
great deal bigger than his body, and he was 
always generous, even to his own injury, 
among his companions. It was evident to him 
that Tom had no claim to any part of the re- 
ward; but he could not endure the thought 
even of being accused of meanness. 

“I’ll tell you what I will do, if you think I 
ought to share with you. I will leave it out 
to Squire Lee ; and if he thinks you ought to 
have half, or any part of the money, I will give 
it to you. ’ ’ 

“No, you don’t; you want to get me into a 
scrape for hooking jack. I see what you are 
up to. ’ ’ 

“I will state the case to him without telling 
him who the boys are. ’ ’ 

“No, you don’t! You want to be mean 
about it. Come, hand over half the money.’’ 

“I will not,’’ replied Bobby, who, when it 
became a matter of compulsion, could stand 
his ground at any peril. 

“How much have you got?’’ 

“Thirty-five dollars.’’ 

“By jolly! And you mean to keep it all 
yourself?’’ 

“I mean to give it to my mother.’’ 

“No, you won’t! If you are going to be 
mean about it, I’ll smash your head!’’ 


22 


NOW OR NEVER. 


This was a favorite expression with Tom 
Spicer, who was a noted bully among the boys 
of Riverdale. The young ruffian now placed 
himself in front of Bobby, and shook his clinch- 
ed fist in his face. 

“Hand over. ” 

“No, I won’t. You have no claim to any 
part of the money ; at least, I think you have 
not. If you have a mind to leave it out to 
Squire Lee, I will do what is right about it.” 

“Not I; hand over, or I’ll smash your 
head ! ’ ’ 

“Smash away,” replied Bobby, placing him- 
self on the defensive. 

“Do you think you can lick me?’’ asked Tom, 
not a little embarrassed by this exhibition of 
resolution on the part of his companion. 

“I don’t think anything about it; but you 
don’t bully me in that kind of style.’’ 

“Won’t I?’’ 

“No.’’ 

But Tom did not immediately put his threat 
in execution, and Bobby would not be the 
aggressor; so he stepped one side to pass his 
assailant. Tom took this as an evidence of the 
other’s desire to escape, and struck him a 
heavy blow on the side of the head. The next 
instant the bully was floundering in the soft 
mud of a ditch; Bobby’s reply was more than 
Tom had bargained for, and while he was 
dragging himself out of the ditch, our hero 
ran down to the river, and got his fish -pole 
and basket. 

“You’ll catch it for that!’’ growled Tom. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


23 


“I’m all ready, whenever it suits your con- 
venience,” replied Bobby. 

“Just come out here and take it in fair fight, ” 
continued Tom, who could not help bullying, 
even in the midst of his misfortune. 

“No, I thank you; I don’t want to fight with 
any fellow. I will not fight if I can help it. ’ ’ 

“What did you hit me for, then?” 

“In self-defense.” 

“Just come out here, and try it fair!” 

“No;” and Bobby hurried home, leaving 
the bully astonished and discomfited by the 
winding up of the morning’s sport. 


24 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH THE LITTLE BLACK HOUSE IS BOUGHT 
BUT NOT PAID FOR. 

Probably my young readers have by this 
time come to the conclusion that Bobby Bright 
was a very clever fellow — one whose acquaint- 
ance they would be happy to cultivate. Per- 
haps by this time they have become so far 
interested in him as to desire to know who his 
parents were, what they did, and in what kind 
of a house he lived. 

I hope none of my young friends will think 
any less of him when I inform them that 
Bobby lived in an old black house which had 
never been painted, which had no flower 
garden in front of it, and which, in a word, 
was quite far from being a palace. A great 
many very nice city folks would not have con- 
sidered it fit to live in, would have turned up 
their noses at it, and wondered that any human 
beings could be so degraded as to live in such 
a miserable house. But the widow Bright, 
Bobby’s mother, thought it was a very com- 
fortable house, and considered herself very 
fortunate in being able to get so good a dwell- 
ing. She had never lived in a fine house, 
knew nothing about velvet carpets, mirrors 


NOW OR NEVER. 


25 


seven feet high, damask chairs and lounges, 
or any of the smart things which very rich and 
very proud city people consider absolutely 
necessary for their comfort. Her father had 
been a poor man, her husband had died a poor 
man, and her own life had been a struggle to 
keep the demons of poverty and want from 
invading her humble abode. 

Mr. Bright, her deceased husband, had been 
a day laborer in Riverdale. He never got 
more than a dollar a day, which was then con- 
sidered very good wages in the country. He 
was a very honest, industrious man, and while 
he lived, his family did very well. Mrs. 
Bright was a careful, prudent woman, and 
helped him support the family. They never 
knew what it was to want for anything. 

Poor people, as well as rich, have an am- 
bition to be something which they are not, or 
to have something which they have not. 
Every person, who has any energy of charac- 
ter, desires to get ahead in the world. Some 
merchants, who own big ships and big ware- 
houses by the dozen, desire to be what they 
consider rich. But their idea of wealth is very 
grand. They wish to count it in millions of 
dollars, in whole blocks of warehouses; and' 
they are even more discontented than the day 
laborer who has to earn his dinner before he 
can eat it. 

Bobby’s father and mother had just such an 
ambition, only it was so modest that the mer- 
chant would have laughed at it. They wanted 
to own the little black house in which they 


26 


NOW OR NEVER. 


resided, so that they could not only be sure of 
a home while they lived, but have the satis- 
faction of living in their own house. This was 
a very reasonable ideal, compared with that of 
the rich merchants I have mentioned ; but it 
was even more difficult for them to reach it, 
for the wages were small, and they had many 
mouths to feed. 

Mr. Bright had saved up fifty dollars; and 
he thought a great deal more of this sum than 
many people do of a thousand dollars. He 
had had to work very hard and be very pru- 
dent in order to accumulate this sum, which 
made him value it all the more highly. 

With this sum of fifty dollars at his com- 
mand, John Bright felt rich; and then, more 
than ever before, he wanted to own the little 
black house. He felt as grand as a lord; and 
as soon as the forty-nine dollars had become 
fifty, he waited upon Mr. Hardhand, a little 
crusty old man, who owned the little black 
house, and proposed to purchase it. 

The landlord was a hard man. Everybody 
in Riverdale said he was mean and stingy. 
Any generous-hearted man would have been 
willing to make an easy bargain with an hon- 
est, industrious, poor man, like John Bright, 
who wished to own the house in which he 
lived;. but Mr. Hardhand, although he was 
rich, only thought how he could make more 
money. He asked the poor man four hundred 
dollars for the old house and the little lot of 
land on which it stood. 

It was a matter of great concern to John 


NOW OR NEVER. 


27 


Bright. Four hundred dollars was a “mint of 
money,” and he could not see how he should 
ever be able to save so much from his daily 
earnings. So he talked with Squire Lee about 
it, who told him that three hundred was all it 
was worth. John offered this for it, and after 
a month’s hesitation, Mr. Hardhand accepted 
the offer, agreeing to take fifty dollars down, 
and the rest in semi-annual payments of 
twenty-five dollars each, until the whole was 
paid. 

I am thus particular in telling my readers 
about the bargain, because this debt which his 
father contracted was the means of making a 
man of Bobby, as will be seen in his subse- 
quent history. 

John Bright paid the first fifty dollars; but 
before the next instalment became due, the 
poor man was laid in his cold and silent grave. 
A malignant disease carried him off, and the 
hopes of the Bright family seemed to be 
blasted. 

Four children were left to the widow. The 
youngest was only three years old, and Bobby, 
the oldest, was nine, when his father died. 
Squire Lee, who had always been a good 
friend of John Bright, told the widow that she 
had better go to the poor-house, and not at- 
tempt to struggle along with such fearful odds 
against her. But the widow nobly refused to 
become a pauper, and to make paupers of her 
children, whom she loved quite a$ much as 
though she and they had been born in a ducal 
palace. She told the squire that she had two 


28 


NOW OR NEVER. 


hands, and as long as she had her health, the 
town need not trouble itself about her support. 

Squire Lee was filled with surprise and ad- 
miration at the noble resolution of the poor 
woman; and when he returned to his house, 
he immediately sent her a cord of wood, ten 
bushels of potatoes, two bags of meal, and a 
firkin of salt pork. 

The widow was very grateful for these arti- 
cles, and no false pride prevented her from 
accepting the gift of her rich and kind-hearted 
neighbor. 

Riverdale center was largely engaged in the 
manufacturing of boots and shoes, and this 
business gave employment to a large number 
of men and women. 

Mrs. Bright had for several years “closed" 
shoes — which, my readers who do not live in 
“shoe towns” may not know, means sewing or 
stitching them. To this business she applied 
herself with renewed energy. There was a 
large hotel in Riverdale center, where several 
families from Boston spent the summer. By 
the aid of Squire Lee, she obtained the wash- 
ing of these families, which was more profit- 
able than closing shoes. 

By these means she not only supported her 
family very comfortably, but was able to save 
a little money towards paying for the house. 
Mr. Hardhand, by the persuasions of Squire 
Lee, had consented to let the widow keep the 
house, and pay for it as she could. 

John Bright had been dead four years at the 
time we introduce Bobby to the reader. Mrs. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


29 


Bright had paid another hundred dollars to- 
wards the house, with the interest; so there 
was now but one hundred due. Bobby had 
learned to “close,” and helped his mother a 
great deal ; but the confinement and the stoop- 
ing posture did not agree with his health, and 
his mother was obliged to dispense with his 
assistance. But the devoted little fellow 
found a great many ways of helping her. He 
was now thirteen, and was as handy about the 
house as a girl. When he was not better oc- 
cupied, he would often go to the river and 
catch a mess of fish, which was so much clear 
gain. 

The winter which had just passed had 
brought a great deal of sickness to the little 
black house. The children all had the mea- 
sles, and two of them the scarlet fever, so that 
Mrs. Bright could not work much. Her affairs 
were not in a very prosperous condition, when 
the spring opened ; but the future was bright, 
and the widow, trusting in Providence, be- 
lieved that all would end well. 

One thing troubled her. She had not been 
able to save anything for Mr. Hardhand. She 
could only pay her interest ; but she hoped by 
the first of July to give him twenty-five dollars 
of the principal. But the first of July came, 
and she had only five dollars of the sum she 
had partly promised her creditor. She could 
not so easily recover from the disasters of the 
hard winter, and she had but just paid off the 
little debts she had contracted. She was ner- 
vous and uneasy as the day approached. Mr. 


30 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Hardhand always abused her when she told 
him she could not pay him, and she dreaded 
his coming. 

It was the first of July on which Bobby 
caught those pouts, caught the horse, and on 
which Tom Spicer had “caught a Tartar.” 

Bobby hastened home, as we said at the con- 
clusion of the last chapter. He was as happy 
as a lord. He had fish enough in his basket 
for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning, 
and money enough in his pocket to make his 
mother as happy as a queen, if queens are 
always happy. 

The widow Bright, though she had worried 
and fretted night and day about the money 
which was to be paid to Mr. Hardhand on the 
first of July, had not told her son anything 
about it. It would only make him unhappy, 
she reasoned, and it was needless to make the 
dear boy miserable for nothing ; so Bobby ran 
home all unconscious of the pleasure which 
was in store for him. 

When he reached the front door, as he 
stopped to scrape his feet on the sharp stone 
there, as all considerate boys who love their 
mothers do, before they go into the house, he 
heard the angry tones of Mr. Hardhand. He 
was scolding and abusing his mother because 
she could not pay him the twenty-five dollars. 

Bobby’s blood boiled with indignation, and 
his first impulse was to serve him as he had 
served Tom Spicer, only a few moments be- 
fore; but Bobby, as we have before intimated, 
was a peaceful boy, and not disposed to quar- 


NOW OR NEVER. 


31 


rel with any person ; so he contented himself 
with muttering a few hard words. 

“The wretch ! What business has he to talk 
to my mother in that style?” said he to him- 
self. “I have a great mind to kick him out of 
the house.” 

But Bobby’s better judgment came to his 
aid; and perhaps he realized that he and his 
mother would only get kicked out in return. 
He could battle with Mr. Hardhand, but not 
with the power which his wealth gave him ; so, 
like a great many older persons in similar cir- 
cumstances, he took counsel of prudence rather 
than impulse. 

“Bear ye one another’s burdens,” saith the 
Scripture; but Bobby was not old enough or 
astute enough to realize that Mr. Hardhand ’s 
burden was his wealth, his love of money ; that 
it made him little better than a Hottentot; and 
he could not feel as charitably towards him as 
a Christian should towards his erring, weak 
brother. 

Setting his pole by the door, he entered the 
room where Hardhand was abusing his mother. 


32 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN WHICH BOBBY GETS OUT OF ONE SCRAPE, AND 
INTO ANOTHER. 

Bobby was so indignant at the conduct of 
Mr. Hardhand, that he entirely forgot the ad- 
venture of the morning ; and he did not even 
think of the gold he had in his pocket. He 
loved his mother; he knew how hard she had 
worked for him and his brother and sisters; 
that she had burned the “midnight oil” at her 
clamps ; and it made him feel very bad to hear 
her abused as Mr. Hardhand was abusing her. 
It was not her fault that she had not the money 
to pay him. She had been obliged to spend a 
large portion of her time over the sick beds of 
her children, so that she could not earn so 
much money as usual; while the family ex- 
penses were necessarily much greater. 

Bobby knew also that Mr. Hardhand was 
aware of all the circumstances of his mother’s 
position ; and the more he considered the case, 
the more brutal and inhuman was his course. 
As our hero entered the family room with the 
basket of fish on his arm, the little crusty old 
man fixed the glance of his evil eye upon him. 

“There is that boy, marm, idling away his 
time by the river, and eating you out of house 


NOW OR NEVER. 


33 


and home,” said the wretch. “Why don’t 
you set him to work, and make him earn some- 
thing?” 

‘‘Bobby is a very good boy,” meekly re- 
sponded the widow Bright. 

‘‘Humph! I should think he was. A great 
lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!” 
and Mr. Hardhand looked contemptuously at 
Bobby. 

‘‘I am not a lazy lubber,” interposed the in- 
sulted boy with spirit. 

‘‘Yes, you are. Why don’t you go to work?” 

‘‘I do work. ” 

‘‘No, you don’t; you waste your time pad- 
dling in the river. ’ ’ 

‘‘I don’t.” 

‘‘You had better teach this boy manners, too, 
marm,” said the creditor, who, like all men of 
small souls, was willing to take advantage of 
the power which the widow’s indebtedness 
gave him. ‘‘He is saucy. ” 

“I should like to know who taught you man- 
ners, Mr. Hardhand,” replied Bobby, whose 
indignation was rapidly getting the better of 
his discretion. 

‘‘What!” growled Mr. Hardhand, aghast at 
this unwonted boldness. 

‘‘I heard what you said before I came in; 
and no decent man would go to the house of a 
poor woman to insult her. ’ ’ 

‘‘Humph! Mighty fine,” snarled the little 
old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice. 

‘‘Don’t, Bobby; don’t be saucy to the gen- 
tleman,” interposed his mother. 

3 Now or Never 


34 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Saucy, marm? You ought to horsewhip 
him for it. If you don’t, I will.” 

“No, you won’t!” replied Bobby, shaking 
his head significantly. “I can take care of my- 
self.” 

“Did any one ever hear such impudence!” 
gasped Mr. Hardhand. 

“Don’t, Bobby, don’t,” pleaded the anxious 
mother. 

“I should like to know what right you have 
to come here and abuse my mother,” contin- 
ued Bobby, who could not restrain his anger. 

“Your mother owes me money, and she don’t 
pay it, you young scoundrel!” answered Mr. 
Hardhand, foaming with rage. 

“That is no reason why you should insult 
her. You can call me what you please, but 
you shall not insult my mother while I’m 
round.” 

“Your mother is a miserable woman, 
and ” 

“Say that again, and though you are an old 
man, I’ll hit you for it. I’m big enough to 
protect my mother, and I’ll do it.” 

Bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to 
Mr. Hardhand, fully determined to execute his 
threat if he repeated the offensive expression, 
or any other of a similar import. He was 
roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt 
as though he had just as lief die as live in de- 
fence of his mother’s good name. 

I am not sure that I could excuse Bobby’s 
violence under any other circumstances. He 
loved his mother — as the novelists would say, he 


NOW OR NEVER. 


35 


idolized her; and Mr. Hardhand had certainly- 
applied some very offensive epithets to her — 
epithets which no good son could calmly hear 
applied to a mother. Besides, Bobby, though 
his heart was a large one, and was in the right 
place, had never been educated into those nice 
distinctions of moral right and wrong which 
control the judgment of wise and learned men. 
He had an idea that violence, resistance with 
blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; 
and he could conceive of no greater provoca- 
tion than an insult to his mother. 

“Be calm, Bobby; you are in a passion,” 
said Mrs. Bright. 

“I am surprised, marm,” began Mr. Hard- 
hand, who prudently refrained from repeating 
the offensive language — and I have no doubt 
he was surprised; for he looked both aston- 
ished and alarmed. “This boy has a most un- 
governable temper. ’ * 

“Don’t you worry about my temper, Mr. 
Hardhand; I’ll take care of myself. All I 
want of you is not to insult my mother. You 
may say what you like to me; but don’t you 
call her hard names.” 

Mr. Hardhand, like all mean, little men, was 
a coward ; and he was effectually intimidated 
by the bold and manly conduct of the boy. 
He changed his tone and manner at once. 

“You have no money for me, marm?” said 
he, edging towards the door. 

“No, sir; I am sorry to say that I have been 
able to save only five dollars since I paid you 
last; but I hope — ” 


36 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Never mind, marm, never mind; I shall 
not trouble myself to come here again, where 
I am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred cub. 
No, marm, I shall not come again. Let the 
law take its course. ’ ’ 

“O, mercy! See what you have brought 
upon us, Bobby,” exclaimed Mrs. Bright, 
bursting into tears. 

“Yes, marm, let the law take its course.” 

“O, Bobby! Stop a moment, Mr. Hard- 
hand: do stop a moment.” 

“Not a moment, marm. We’ll see;” and 
Mr. Hardhand placed his hand upon the latch 
string. 

Bobby felt very uneasy, and very unhappy 
at that moment. His passion had subsided, 
and he realized that he had done a great deal 
of mischief by his impetuous conduct. 

Then the remembrance of his morning ad- 
venture on the bridge came like a flash of sun- 
shine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from 
his pocket the handkerchief in which he had 
deposited the precious gold, — doubly precious 
now, because it would enable him to retrieve 
the error into which he had fallen, and do 
something towards relieving his mother’s em- 
barrassment. With a trembling hand he untied 
the knot which secured the money. 

“Here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;” 
and he placed it in her hand. 

“Why, Bobby!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright. 

“Pay him, mother, pay him, and I will tell 
you all about it by-and-by.” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


37 


“Thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! Where 
did you get it, Bobby?” 

“Never mind it now, mother.” 

Mr. Hardhand’s covetous soul had already 
grasped the glittering gold ; and removing his 
hand from the latch string, he approached the 
widow. 

“I shall be able to pay you forty dollars 
now,” said Mrs. Bright, taking the five dollars 
she had saved from her pocket. 

“Yes, marm. ” 

Mr. Hard hand took the money, and seating 
himself at the table, indorsed the amount on 
the back of the note. 

“You owe me sixty more,” said he, mali- 
ciously, as he returned the note to his pocket- 
book. “It must be paid immediately.” 

“You must not be hard with me now, when 
I have paid more than you demanded.” 

“I don’t wish to come here again. That 
boy’s impudence has put me all out of conceit 
with you and your family,” replied Mr. Hard- 
hand, assuming the most benevolent look he 
could command. “There was a time when I 
was very willing to help you. I have waited a 
great while for my pay for this house ; a great 
deal longer than I would have waited for any- 
body else. ’ ’ 

“Your interest has always been paid punct- 
ually, ” suggested the widow, modestly. 

“That’s true; but very few people would 
have waited as long as I have for the princi- 
pal. I wanted to help you ” 


38 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“By gracious!” exclaimed Bobby, interrupt- 
ing him. 

“Don’t be saucy, my son, don’t,” said Mrs. 
Bright, fearing a repetition of the former 
scene. 

“He wanted to help us!” ejaculated Bobby. 

It was a very absurd and hypocritical expres- 
sion on the part of Mr. Hardhand; for he 
never wanted to help any one but himself; 
and during the whole period of his relations 
with the poor widow, he had oppressed, in- 
sulted, and abused her to the extent of his 
capacity, or at least as far as his interest would 
permit. 

He was a malicious and revengeful man. 
He did not consider the great provocation he 
had given Bobby for his violent conduct, but 
determined to be revenged, if it could be ac- 
complished without losing any part of the sixty 
dollars still due him. He was a wicked man 
at heart, and would not scruple to turn the 
widow and her family out of house and home. 

Mrs. Bright knew this, and Bobby knew it, 
too ; and they felt very uneasy about it. The 
wretch still had the power to injure them, and 
he would use it without compunction. 

“Yes, young man, I wanted to help you, and 
you see what I get for it — contempt and in- 
sults! You will hear from me again in a day 
or two. Perhaps you will change your tune, 
you young reprobate!” 

“Perhaps I shall,” replied Bobby, without 
much discretion. 

“And you, too, marm; you uphold him in 


NOW OR NEVER. 


39 


his treatment of me. You have not done 
your duty to him. You have been remiss, 
marm!” continued Mr. Hardhand, grow- 
ing bolder again, as he felt the power he 
wielded. 

“That will do, sir; you can go!” said 
Bobby, springing from his chair, and ap- 
proaching Mr. Hardhand. “Go, and do your 
worst!’* 

“Humph! you stump me — do you!” 

“I would rather see my mother kicked out of 
the house than insulted by such a dried-up old 
curmudgeon as you are. Go along!” 

“Now, don’t Bobby,” pleaded his mother. 

“I am going; and if the money is not paid 
by twelve o’clock to-morrow, the law shall 
take its course;’’ and Mr. Hardhand rushed 
out of the house, slamming the door violently 
after him. 

“O, Bobby, what have you done?’’ exclaimed 
Mrs. Bright, when the hard-hearted creditor 
had departed. 

“I could not help it, mother; don’t cry. I 
cannot bear to hear you insulted and abused; 
and I thought when I heard him do it a year 
ago, that I couldn’t stand it again. It is too 
bad.’’ 

“But he will turn us out of the house; and 
what shall we do then?” 

“Don’t cry, mother; it will come round all 
right. I have friends who are rich and power- 
ful, and who will help us. ’ ’ 

“You don’t know what you say, Bobby. 
Sixty dollars is a great deal of money, and if 


40 


NOW OR NEVER. 


we should sell all we have, it would scarcely 
bring that. ’ ’ 

“Leave it all to me, mother; I feel as though 
I could do something now. I am old enough 
to make money.” 

“What can you do?” 

“Now or never!” replied Bobby, whose mind 
had wandered from the scene to the busy 
world, where fortunes are made and lost 
every day. “Now or never!” muttered he 
again. 

“But, Bobby, you have not told me where 
you got all that gold. ’ ’ 

“Dinner is ready, I see, and I will tell you 
while we eat.” 

Bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry 
is a part of the fisherman’s luck; so he seated 
himself at the table, and gave his mother a 
full account of all that had occurred at the 
bridge. 

The fond mother trembled when she realized 
the peril her son had incurred for the sake of 
the young lady; but her maternal heart 
swelled with admiration in view of the gener- 
ous deed, and she thanked God that she was 
the mother of such a son. She felt more con- 
fidence in him then than she had ever felt 
before, and she realized that he would 
be the stay and the staff of her declining 
years. 

Bobby finished his dinner and seated himself 
on the front door step. His mind was ab- 
sorbed by a new and brilliant idea ; and for 


NOW OR NEVER. 


41 


half an hour he kept up a most tremendous 
thinking. 

“Now or never!” said he, as he rose and 
walked down the road towards Riverdale 
Center. 


42 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH BOBBY GIVES HIS NOTE FOR SIXTY 
DOLLARS. 

A great idea was born in Bobby’s brain. 
His mother’s weakness and the insecurity of 
her position were more apparent to him than 
they had ever been before. She was in the 
power of her creditor, who might turn her out 
of the little black house, sell the place at auc- 
tion, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the 
whole or a large part of his father’s and her 
own hard earnings. 

But this was not the peculiar hardship of 
her situation, as her devoted son understood it. 
It was not the hard work alone which she was 
called upon to perform, not the coarseness of 
the fare upon which they lived, not the danger 
even of being turned out of doors, that dis- 
tressed Bobby; it was that a wretch like Mr. 
Hardhand could insult and trample upon his 
mother. He had just heard him use language 
to her that made his blood boil with indigna- 
tion, and he did not, on cool, sober, second 
thought, regret that he had taken such a 
decided stand against it. 

He cared not for himself. He could live on 
a crust of bread and a cup of water from the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


43 


spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could 
wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he 
could not submit to have his mother insulted, 
and by such a mean and contemptible person 
as Mr. Hardhand. 

Yet what could he do? He was but a boy, 
and the great world would look with contempt 
upon his puny form. But he felt that he was 
not altogether insignificant. He had per- 
formed an act, that day, which the fair young 
lady, to whom he had rendered the service, 
had declared very few men would have under- 
taken. There was something in him, some- 
thing that would come out, if he only put his 
best foot forward. It was a tower of strength 
within him. It told him that he could do 
wonders; that he could go out into the world 
and accomplish all that would be required to 
free his mother from debt, and relieve her 
from the severe drudgery of her life. 

A great many people think they can “do 
wonders. “ The vanity of some very silly peo- 
ple makes them think they can command 
armies, govern nations, and teach the world 
what the world never knew before, and never 
would know but for them. But Bobby’s some- 
thing within him was not vanity. It was 
something more substantial. He was not 
thinking of becoming a great man, a great 
general, a great ruler, or a great statesman ; 
not even of making a great fortune. Self was 
not the idol and the end of his calculations. He 
was thinking of his mother, and only of her ; 
and the feeling within him was as pure, and 


44 


NOW OR NEVER. 


holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. 
He wanted to save his mother from insult in 
the first place, and from a life of ceaseless 
drudgery in the second. 

A legion of angels seemed to have encamped 
in his soul to give him strength for the, great 
purpose in his mind. His was a holy and a 
true purpose, and it was this that made him 
think he could “do wonders.” 

What Bobby intended to do the reader shall 
know in due time. It is enough now that he 
meant to do something. The difficulty with 
a great many people is, that they never re- 
solve to do something. They wait for “some- 
thing to turn up;” and as “things” are often 
very obstinate, they utterly refuse to “turn 
up” at all. Their lives are spent in waiting 
for a golden opportunity which never comes. 

Now, Bobby Bright repudiated the Micaw- 
ber philosophy. He would have nothing to 
do with it. He did not believe corn would 
grow without being planted, or that pouts 
would bite the bare hook. 

I am not going to tell my young readers now 
how Bobby made out in the end; but I can 
confidently say that, if he had waited for 
“something to turn up,” he would have be- 
come a vagabond, a loafer, out of money, out 
at the elbows, and out of patience with him- 
self and all the world. 

It was “now or never” with Bobby. He 
meant to do something; and after he had 
made up his mind how and where it was to be 
done, it was no use to stand thinking about it, 


NOW OR NEVER. 


45 


like the pendulum of the “old clock which had 
stood for fifty years in a farmer’s kitchen, 
without giving its owner any cause of com- 
plaint. ’’ 

Bobby walked down the road towards the 
village with a rapid step, tie was thinking 
very fast, and probably that made him step 
quick. But as he approached Squire Lee’s 
house, his pace slackened, and he seemed to 
be very uneasy. When he reached the great 
gate that led up to the house, he stopped for an 
instant, and thrust his hands down very deep 
into his trouser pockets. I cannot tell what 
the trousers pockets had to do with what he 
was thinking about ; but if he was searching 
for anything in them, he did not find it; for 
after an instant’s hesitation he drew out his 
hands, struck one of them against his chest, 
and in an audible voice exclaimed, — 

“Now or never.” 

All this pantomime, I suppose, meant that 
Bobby had some misgivings as to the ultimate 
success of his mission at Squire Lee’s, and that 
when he struck his breast and uttered his 
favorite expressions, they were conquered and 
driven out. 

Marching with a bold and determined step 
up to the squire’s back door — Bobby’s ideas of 
etiquette would not have answered for the 
meridian of fashionable society — he gave 
three smart raps. 

Bobby’s heart beat a little wildly as he 
waited a response to his summons. It seemed 
that he still had some doubts as to the prac- 


46 


NOW OR NEVER. 


ticability of his mission; but they were not 
permitted to disturb him long, for the door 
was opened by the Squire’s pretty daughter 
Annie, a young miss of twelve. 

“O Bobby, is it you? I am so glad you have 
come!” exclaimed the little lady. 

Bobby blushed — he didn’t know why, unless 
it was that the young lady desired to see him. 
He stammered out a reply, and for the mo- 
ment forgot the object of his visit. 

“I want you to go down to the village for 
me, and get some books the expressman was 
to bring up from Boston for me. Will you 
go?” 

‘‘Certainly, Miss Annie, I shall be very glad 
to go for you," replied Bobby, with an empha- 
sis that made the little maiden blush in her 
turn. 

‘‘You are real good, Bobby; but I will give 
you something for going. ” 

“I don’t want anything," said Bobby, 
stoutly. 

‘‘You are too generous! Ah, I heard what 
you did this forenoon ; and pa says that a great 
many men would not have dared to do what 
you did. I always thought you were as brave 
as a lion; now I know it.” 

‘‘The books are at the express office, I sup- 
pose," said Bobby, turning as red as a blood 
beet. 

‘‘Yes, Bobby; I am so anxious to get them 
that I can’t wait till pa goes down this even- 
ing.” 

‘ 4 1 will not be gone long. ’ ’ 


NOW OR NEVER. 


47 


“O, you needn’t run, Bobby; take your 
time.” 

“I will go very quick. But, Miss Annie, is 
your father at home?” 

“Not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; 
but he will be back by the time you return.” 

“Will you please to tell him that I want to 
see him about something very particular, 
when he gets back?” 

“I will, Bobby.” 

“Thank you, Miss Annie;” and Bobby has- 
tened to the village to execute his commis- 
sion. 

“I wonder what he wants to see pa so very 
particularly for,” said the young lady to her- 
self, as she watched his receding form. “In 
my opinion, something has happened at the 
little black house, for I could see that he 
looked very sober. ’ ’ 

Either Bobby had a very great regard for the 
young lady, and wished to relieve her impa- 
tience to behold the coveted books, or he was 
in a hurry to see Squire Lee; for the squire’s 
old roan horse could hardly have gone quicker. 

“You should not have run, Bobby,” said the 
little maiden when he placed the books in her 
hand; “I would not have asked you to go if I 
had thought you would run all the way. You 
must be very tired. ’ ’ 

“Not at all; I didn’t run, only walked very 
quick,” replied he; but his quick breathing 
indicated that his words or his walk had been 
very much exaggerated. “Has your father 
returned?” 


48 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“He has; he is waiting for you in the sitting- 
room. Come in, Bobby. ’ ’ 

Bobby followed her into the room, and took 
the chair which Annie offered him. 

“How do you do, Bobby? I am glad to see 
you,” said the squire, taking him by the hand, 
and bestowing a benignant smile upon him — 
a smile which cheered his heart more than 
anything else could at that moment. “I have 
heard of you before to-day. ” 

“Have you?” 

“I have, Bobby; you are a brave little fel- 
low. ’ ’ 

“I came over to see you, sir, about some- 
thing very particular,” replied Bobby, whose 
natural modesty induced him to change the 
topic. 

“Indeed; well, what can I do for you?” 

“A great deal, sir; perhaps you will think I 
am very bold, sir, but I can’t help it.” 

“I know you are a very bold little fellow, or 
you would not have done what you did this 
forenoon,” laughed the squire. 

“I didn’t mean that, sir,” answered Bobby, 
blushing up to the eyes. 

“I know you didn’t; but go on.” 

“I only meant that you would think me pre- 
suming, or impudent, or something of that 
kind. ” 

“O, no, far from it. You cannot be presum- 
ing or impudent. Speak out, Bobby ; anything 
under the heavens that I can do for you, I 
shall be glad to do. ’ ’ 

“Well, sir, I am going to leave Riverdale.” 



Bobby took the chair Annie offered him.” — Page 48. 

Now or Never. 






NOW OR NEVER. 


49 


“Leave Riverdale!” 

“Yes, sir; I am going to Boston, where I 
mean to do something to help mother.” 

“Bravo! you are a good lad. What do you 
mean to do?” 

“I was thinking I should go into the book 
business. ’ ’ 

“Indeed!” and Squire Lee was much 
amused by the matter-of-fact manner of the 
young aspirant. 

“I was talking with a young fellow who 
went through the place last spring, selling 
books. He told me that some days he made 
three or four dollars, and that he averaged 
twelve dollars a week. ’ * 

“He did well; perhaps, though, only a few 
of them make so much. ’ ’ 

“I know I can make twelve dollars a week,” 
replied Bobby, confidently, for that something 
within him made him feel capable of great 
things. 

“I dare say you can. You have energy and 
perseverance, and people take a liking to 
you. * ’ 

“But I want to see you about another mat- 
ter. To speak out at once, I want to borrow 
sixty dollars of you;” and Bobby blushed, and 
seemed very much embarrassed by his own 
boldness. 

“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed the squire. 

“I knew you would think me impudent,” 
replied our hero, his heart sinking within 
him. 

“But I don’t, Bobby. You want this money 

4 Now or Never 


50 


NOW OR NEVER. 


to go into business with — to buy your stock of 
books?’' 

“O, no, sir; I am going to apply to Mr. 
Bayard for that. ’ ’ 

“Just so; Mr. Bayard is the gentleman 
whose daughter you saved?” 

“Yes, sir. I want this money to pay off Mr. 
Hardhand. We owe him but sixty dollars 
now, and he has threatened to turn us out, 
if it is not paid by to-morrow noon. ” 

“The old hunks!” 

Bobby briefly related to the squire the 
events of the morning, much to the indigna- 
tion and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted 
man. The courageous boy detailed more 
clearly his purpose, and doubted not he should 
be able to pay the loan in a few months. 

“Very well, Bobby, here is the money;” and 
the squire took it from his wallet, and gave it 
to him. 

“Thank you, sir. May Heaven bless you! 
I shall certainly pay you. ” 

“Don’t worry about it, Bobby. Pay it 
when you get ready.” 

“I will give you my note, and ” 

The squire laughed heartily at this, and told 
him, that, as he was a minor, his note was not 
good for anything. 

“You shall see whether it is, or not,” re- 
turned Bobby. “Let me give it to you, at 
least, so that we can tell how much I owe you 
from time to time. ’ ’ 

“You shall have your own way.” 

Annie Lee, as much amused as her father at 


NOW OR NEVER. 


51 


Bobby’s big talk, got the writing materials, 
and the little merchant in embryo wrote and 
signed the note. 

“Good, Bobby! Now promise that you will 
come and see me every time you come home, 
and tell me how you are getting along. ” 

“I will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;’’ and 
with a light heart Bobby tripped away home. 


52 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN WHICH BOBBY SETS OUT ON HIS TRAVELS. 

Squire Lee, though only a plain farmer, was 
the richest man in Riverdale. He had taken 
a great fancy to Bobby, and often employed 
him to do errands, ride the horse to plow in 
the cornfields, and such chores about the place 
as a boy could do. He liked to talk with 
Bobby because there was a great deal of good 
sense in him, for one with a small head. 

If there was one thing upon which the squire 
particularly prided himself, it was his knowl- 
edge of human nature. He declared that he 
only wanted to look a man in the face to know 
what he was ; and as for Bobby Bright, he had 
summered him and wintered him, and he was 
satisfied that he would make something in 
good time. 

He was not much astonished when Bobby 
opened his ambitious scheme of going into 
business for himself. He had had full faith 
in his ability to work out a useful and profit- 
able, if not a brilliant life. He often said that 
Bobby was worth his weight in gold, and that 
he would trust him with anything he had. 
Perhaps he did not suspect that the time was 
at hand when he would be called upon to 


NOW OR NEVER. 


53 


verify his words practically; for it was only 
that morning, when one of the neighbors told 
him about Bobby stopping the horse, that he 
had repeated the expression for the twentieth 
time. 

It was not an idle remark. Sixty dollars 
was hardly worth mentioning with a man of 
his wealth and liberal views, though so careful 
a man as he was would not have been likely 
to throw away that amount. But as a matter 
of investment, — Bobby had made the note 
read “with interest,” — he would as readily 
have let him have it, as the next richest man 
in the place, so much confidence had he in our 
hero’s integrity, and so sure was he that he 
would soon have the means of paying him. 

Bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue 
of his mission, and he walked into the room 
where his mother was closing shoes, with a 
dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. 
Mrs. Bright was very sad. Perhaps she felt a 
little grieved that her son, whom she loved so 
much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into 
a new difficulty. 

“Come, cheer up, mother; it is all right,” 
said Bobby in his usual elastic and gay tones; 
and at the same time he took the sixty dollars 
from his pocket and handed it to her. “There 
is the money, and you will be forever quit of 
Mr. Hardhand to-morrow. ” 

“What, Bobby! Why, where did you get 
all this money?” asked Mrs. Bright, utterly 
astonished. 

In a few words the ambitious boy told his 


54 


NOW OR NEVER. 


story, and then informed his mother that he 
was going to Boston the next Monday morn- 
ing, to commence business for himself. 

“Why, what can you do, Bobby?’ ’ 

“Do? I can do a great many things;” and 
he unfolded his scheme of becoming a little 
book merchant. 

“You are a courageous fellow! Who would 
have thought of such a thing!” 

“I should, and did.” 

“But you are not old enough.” 

“O, yes, I am.” 

“You had better wait a while.” 

“Now or never, mother! You see I have 
given my note, and my paper will be dis- 
honored, if I am not up and doing. ’ ’ 

“Your paper!” said Mrs. Bright, with a 
smile. 

“That is what Mr. Wing, the boot manu- 
facturer, calls it.” 

“You needn’t go away to earn this money; 
I can pay it myself. ’ ’ 

“This note is my affair, and I mean to pay 
it myself with my own earnings. No objec- 
tions, mother.” 

Like a sensible woman as she was, she did 
not make any objections. She was conscious 
of Bobby’s talents; she knew that he had a 
strong mind of his own, and could take care of 
himself. It is true, she feared the influence of 
the great world, and especially of the great 
city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if 
he was never tempted, he would never be a 
conqueror over the foes that beset him. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


55 


She determined to do her whole duty to- 
wards him; and she carefully pointed out to 
him the sins and the moral danger to which he 
would be exposed, and warned him always to 
resist temptation. She counseled him to 
think of her when he felt like going astray. 

Bobby declared that he would try to be a 
good boy. He did not speak contemptuously 
of the anticipated perils, as many boys would 
have done, because he knew that his mother 
would not make bugbears out of things which 
she knew had no real existence. 

The next day, Mr. Hardhand came; and my 
young readers can judge how astonished and 
chagrined he was, when the widow Bright 
offered him the sixty dollars. The Lord was 
with the widow and the fatherless, and the 
wretch was cheated out of his revenge. The 
note was given up, and the mortgage canceled. 

Mr. Hardhand insisted that she should pay 
the interest on the sixty dollars for one day, 
as it was then the second day of July; but 
when Bobby reckoned it up, and found it was 
less than one cent, even the wretched miser 
seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the 
subject of conversation. 

He did not dare to say anything saucy to 
the widow this time. He had lost his power 
over her, and there stood Bobby, who had 
come to look just like a young lion to him, 
coward and knave as he was. 

The business was all settled now, and 
Bobby spent the rest of the week in getting 
ready for his great enterprise. He visited all 


56 


NOW OR NEVER. 


his friends, and went each day to' talk with 
Squire Lee and Annie. The little maiden 
promised to buy a great many books of him, 
if he would bring his stock to Riverdale, for 
she was quite as much interested in him as her 
father was. 

Monday morning came, and Bobby was out 
of bed with the first streak of dawn. The 
excitement of the great event which was 
about to happen had not permitted him to 
sleep for the two hours preceding ; yet when 
he got up, he could not help feeling sad. He 
was going to leave the little black house, 
going to leave his mother, going to leave the 
children, to depart for the great city. 

His mother was up before him. She was 
even more sad than he was, for she could see 
plainer than he the perils that environed him, 
and her maternal heart, in spite of the reason- 
able confidence she had in his integrity and 
good principles, trembled for his safety. 

As he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated 
the warnings and the good lessons she had 
before imparted. She particularly cautioned 
him to keep out of bad company. If he found 
that his companions would lie and swear, he 
might depend upon it they would steal, and 
he had better forsake them at once. 

This was excellent advice, and Bobby had 
occasion at a later period to call it to his sor- 
rowing heart. 

‘‘Here is three dollars, Bobby: it is all the 
money I have. Your fare to Boston will be 
one dollar, and you will have two left to pay 


NOW OR NEVER. 


57 


the expenses of yonr first trip. It is all I have 
now,” said Mrs. Bright. 

“I will not take the whole of it. Yon will 
want it yourself. One dollar is enough. 
When I find Mr. Bayard, I shall do very well. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Bobby, take the whole of it.” 

“I will take just one dollar, and no more,” 
replied Bobby, resolutely, as he handed her 
the other two dollars. 

“Do take it, Bobby. ” 

“No, mother; it will only make me lazy and 
indifferent. ” 

Taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a 
handkerchief in his bundle, he was ready for a 
start. 

“Good-by, mother,” said he, kissing her and 
taking her hand. “I shall try and come home 
on Saturday, so as to be with you on Sunday. ’ ’ 

Then kissing the children, who had not yet 
got up, and to whom he had bidden adieu the 
night before, he left the house. He had seen 
the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, 
as he crossed the threshold ; and he could not 
help crying a little himself. It is a sad thing 
to leave one’s home, one’s mother, especially, 
to go out into the great world ; and we need 
not wonder that Bobby, who had hardly been 
out of Riverdale before, should weep. But 
he soon restrained the flowing tears. 

“Now or never!” said he, and he put his 
best foot forward. 

It was an epoch in his history, and though 
he was too young to realize the importance of 
the event, he seemed to feel that what he did 


58 


NOW OR NEVER. 


now was to give character to his whole future 
life. 

It was a bright and beautiful morning — 
somehow* it is always a bright and beautiful 
morning when boys leave their homes to com- 
mence the journey of life ; it is typical of the 
season of youth and hope, and it is meet that 
the sky should be clear, and the sun shine 
brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon 
his tour. He will see clouds and storms 
before he has gone far — let him have a fair 
start. 

He had to walk five miles to the nearest 
railroad station. His road lay by the house 
of his friend, Squire Lee ; and as he was ap- 
proaching it, he met Annie. She said she 
had come out to take her morning walk ; but 
Bobby knew very well that she did not usually 
walk till an hour later; which, with the fact 
that she had asked him particularly, the day 
before, what time he was going, made Bobby 
believe that she had come out to say good by, 
and bid him God speed on his journey. At 
any rate, he was very glad to see her. He said 
a great many pretty things to her, and talked 
so big about what he was going to do, that the 
little maiden could hardly help laughing in 
his face. 

Then at the house he shook hands with the 
squire, and shook hands again with Annie, and 
resumed his journey. His heart felt lighter 
for having met them, or at least for having 
met one of them, if not both; for Annie’s eyes 
were so full of sunshine that they seemed to 


NOW OR NEVER. 


59 


gladden his heart, and make him feel truer 
and stronger. 

After a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded 
the distance, so full was he of his big thoughts, 
he reached the railroad station. The cars had 
not yet arrived, and would not for half an 
hour. 

“Why should I give them a dollar for carry- 
ing me to Boston, when I can just as well 
walk? If I get tired, I can sit down and rest 
me. If I save the dollar, I shall have to earn 
only fifty-nine more to pay my note. So here 
goes;’’ and he started down the track. 


60 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER VII. 

IN WHICH BOBBY STANDS UP FOR “CERTAIN 
INALIENABLE RIGHTS.” 

Whether it was wise policy, or “penny wise 
and pound foolish” policy for Bobby to under- 
take such a long walk, is certainly a debatable 
question; but as my young readers would 
probably object to an argument, we will fol- 
low him to the city, and let every one settle the 
point to suit himself. 

His cheerful heart made the road smooth 
beneath his feet. He had always been accus- 
tomed to an active, busy life, and had probably 
often walked more than twenty miles in a day. 
About ten o’clock, though he did not fee 
much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock by 
a brook, from which he had just taken a drink, 
to rest himself. He had walked slowly so as 
to husband his strength ; and he felt confident 
that he should be able to accomplish the jour- 
ney without injury to himself. 

After resting for half an hour, he resumed 
his walk. At twelve o’clock he reached a 
point from which he obtained his first view of 
the city. His heart bounded at the sight, and 
his first impulse was to increase his speed so 
that he should the sooner gratify his curiosity; 


NOW OR NEVER. 


61 


but a second thought reminded him that he 
had eaten nothing since breakfast; so, finding 
a shady tree by the road side, he seated him- 
self on a stone to eat the luncheon which his 
considerate mother had placed in his bundle. 

Thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and 
continued his journey again till he was on the 
very outskirts of the city, where a sign, “No 
passing over this bridge, ’ ’ interrupted his far- 
ther progress. Unlike many others, Bobby took 
this sign literally, and did not venture to cross 
the bridge. Having some doubts as to the 
direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a 
butcher’s cart, who not only pointed the way, 
but gave him an invitation to ride with him, 
which Bobby was glad to accept. 

They crossed the Milldam, and the little pil- 
grim forgot the long walk he had taken — for- 
got Riverdale, his mother, Squire Lee, and 
Annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest 
of the exciting scene. The Common beat Riv- 
erdale Common all hollow ; he had never seen 
anything like it before. But when the wagon 
reached Washington Street, the measure of his 
surprise was filled up. 

“My gracious! how thick the houses are !’ ’ 
exclaimed he, much to the amusement of the 
kind-hearted butcher. 

“We have high fences here,’’ he replied. 

“Where are all these folks going to?’’ 

“You will have to ask them, if you want to 
know. ’’ 

But the wonder soon abated, and Bobby be- 
gan to think of his great mission in the city. 


62 


NOW OR NEVER. 


He got tirea of gazing and wondering, and 
even began to smile with contempt at the silly 
fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly- 
dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle 
butterflies, on the sidewalk. It was an excit- 
ing scene ; but it did not look real to him. It 
was more like Herr Grunderslung’s exhibition 
of the magic lantern, than anything substan- 
tial. 

The men and women were like so many pup- 
pets. They did not seem to be doing any- 
thing, or to be walking for any purpose. 

He got out of the butcher’s cart at the Old 
South. His first impression, as he joined the 
busy throng, was, that he was one of the pup- 
pets. He did not seem to have any hold upon 
the scene, and for several minutes the sensa- 
tion of vacancy chained him to the spot. 

“Allright!” exclaimed he to himself at last. 
“I am here. NowJs my time to make a strike. 
Now or never. ” 

He pulled Mr. Bayard’s card from his 
pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his 
mind. Now, numbers were not a Riverdale 
institution, and Bobby was a little perplexed 
about finding the one indicated. A little study 
into the matter, however, set him right, and 
he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the 
bookseller’s name over his store. 

“F. Bayard,” he read; “this is the place.” 

“Country!” shouted a little ragged boy, who 
dodged across the street at that moment. 

“Just so, my beauty!” said Bobby, a little 
nettled at this imputation of verdancy. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


63 


“What a greeny," shouted the little vaga- 
bond, from the other side of the street. 

“No matter, rag-tag! We’ll settle that mat- 
ter some other time. ’ ’ 

But Bobby felt that there was something in 
his appearance which subjected him to the 
remarks of others, and, as he entered the shop, 
he determined to correct it as soon as possible. 

A spruce young gentleman was behind the 
counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him 
as he entered. 

“Mr. Bayard keep here?" asked Bobby. 

“Well, I reckon he does. How are all the 
folks up country?" replied the spruce clerk, 
with a rude grin. 

“How are they?" repeated Bobby, the color 
flying to his cheek. 

“Yes, ha-ow do they dew?" 

“They behave themselves better than they 
do here. ’ ’ 

“Eh, greeny?" 

“Eh, sappy?" repeated Bobby, mimicking 
the soft, silky tones of the young city gentle- 
man. 

“What do you mean by sappy?" asked the 
clerk, indignantly. 

“What do you mean by greeny?" 

“I’ll let you know what I mean." 

“When you do, I’ll let you know what I 
mean by sappy. ’ ’ 

“Good!” exclaimed one of the salesmen, who 
had heard part of this spirited conversation. 
“You will learn better by-and-by, Timmins, 
than to impose upon boys from out of town. ” 


64 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“You seem to be a gentleman, sir,” said 
Bobby, approaching the salesman. “I wish 
to see Mr. Bayard. ’ ’ 

“You can’t see him!” growled Timmins. 

“Can’t I?” 

“Not at this minute; he is engaged just 
now,” added the salesman, who seemed to 
have a profound respect for Bobby’s discrimi- 
nation. “He will be at liberty in a few mo- 
ments. ’ ’ 

“I will wait, then,” said Bobby, seating him- 
self on a stool by the counter. 

Pretty soon the civil gentleman left the 
store to go to dinner, and Timmins, a little 
timid about provoking the young lion, cast an 
occasional glance of hatred at him. He had 
evidently found that “Country” was an em- 
bryo American citizen, and that he was a firm 
believer in the self-evident truths of the Dec- 
laration of Independence. 

Bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce 
clerk, ready as he had been to defend his “cer- 
tain inalienable rights. ’ ’ 

“You do a big business here,” suggested 
Bobby, in a conciliatory tone, and with a smile 
on his face which ought to have convinced the 
uncourteous clerk that he meant well. 

“Who told you so?” replied Timmins, 
gruffly. 

“I merely judged from appearances. You 
have a big store, and an immense quantity of 
books.” 

“Appearances are deceitful,” replied Tim- 
mins ; and perhaps he had been impressed by 


NOW OR NEVER. 


65 


the fact from his experience with the lad from 
the country. 

“That is true,” added Bobby, with a good- 
natured smile, which, when interpreted, might 
have meant, “I took you for a civil fellow, but 
I have been very much mistaken.” 

“You will find it out before you are many 
days older. ’ ’ 

“The book business is good just now, isn’t 
it?” continued Bobby, without clearly compre- 
hending the meaning of the other’s last 
remark. 

“Humph! What’s that to you?” 

“O, I intend to go into it myself. ” 

“Ha, ha, ha! Good! You do?” 

“I do,” replied Bobby, seemingly uncon- 
cerned at the taunts of the clerk. 

“I suppose you want to get a place here,” 
sneered Timmins, alarmed at the prospect. 
“But let me tell you, you can’t do it. Bayard 
has all the help he wants ; and if that is what 
you come for, you can move on as fast as you 
please.” 

“I guess I will see him,” added Bobby 
quietly. 

“No use. ” 

“No harm in seeing him.” 

As he spoke, he took up a book that lay on 
the counter, and began to turn over the 
leaves. 

“Put that book down!” said the amiable Mr. 
Timmins. 

“I won’t hurt it,” replied Bobby, who had 


5 Now or Never 


66 


NOW OR NEVER. 


just fixed his eye upon some very pretty en- 
gravings in the volume. 

“Put it down!” repeated Mr. Timmins, in a 
loud, imperative tone. 

“Certainly I will, if you say so,” said 
Bobby, who, though not much intimidated by 
the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the 
rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not 
to meddle. 

“I do say so!” added Mr. Timmins, magnifi- 
cently; “and what’s more, you’d better mind 
me, too.’’ 

Bobby had minded, and probably the stately 
little clerk would not have been so bold if he 
had not. Some people like to threaten after 
the danger is over. 

Then our visitor from the country espied 
some little blank books lying on the counter. 
He had already made up his mind to have one, 
in which to keep his accounts ; and he thought, 
while he was waiting, that he would purchase 
one. He meant to do things methodically ; so 
when he picked up one of the blank books, it 
was with the intention of buying it. 

“Put that book down!’’ said Mr. Timmins, 
encouraged in his aggressive intentions by the 
previous docility of our hero. 

“I want to buy one.’’ 

“No, you don’t; put it down.’’ 

“What is the price of these?’’ asked Bobby, 
resolutely. 

“None of your business!’’ 

“Is that the way you treat your customers?’ 
asked Bobby, with a little sternness in his 


NOW OR NEVER. 


67 


looks and tones. “I say I want to buy 
one.” 

‘‘Put it down !” 

‘‘But I will not; I say I want to buy it.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“What is the price of it?” 

“Twenty-five cents,” growled Timmins, 
which was just four times the retail price. 

“Twenty-five cents! That’s high.” 

“Put it down, then.” 

“Is that your lowest price?” asked Bobby, 
who was as cool as a cucumber. 

“Yes, it is; and if you don’t put it down, 
I’ll kick you out of the store.” 

“Will you? Then I won’t put it down.” 

Mr. Timmins took his as a “stump;” his ire 
was up, and he walked round from behind the 
counter to execute his threat. 

I must say I think Bobby was a little for- 
ward, and I would have my young readers a 
little more pliant with small men like Tim- 
mins. There are always men enough in the 
world who are ready and willing to quarrel on 
any provocation; and it is always best not to 
provoke them, even if they are overbearing 
and insolent, as Mr. Timmins certainly was. 

“Hold on a minute before you do it,” said 
Bobby, with the same provoking coolness. “I 
want to buy this book, and I am willing to pay 
a fair price for it. But I happen to know that 
you can buy them up in Riverdale, where I 
come from, for six cents.” 

“No matter,” exclaimed the indignant 
clerk, seizing Bobby by the coat collar for the 


68 


NOW OR NEVER. 


purpose of ejecting him; “you shall find your 
way into the street. ’ * 

Now, Bobby, as I have before intimated, 
was an embryo American citizen, and the act 
of Mr. Timmins seemed like an invasion of his 
inalienable rights. No time was given him to 
make a formal declaration of rights in the 
premises, so the instinct of self-preservation 
was allowed to have free course. 

Mr. Timmins pulled and tugged at his coat 
collar, and Bobby hung back like a mule, and 
for an instant there was quite a spirited scene. 

“Hallo! Timmins, what does this mean?” 
said a voice, at which the valiant little clerk 
instantly let go his hold. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


69 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN WHICH MR. TIMMINS IS ASTONISHED, AND 
BOBBY DINES IN CHESTNUT STREET. 

It was Mr. Bayard. He had finished his 
business with the gentleman by his side, and 
hearing the noise of the scuffle, had come to 
learn the occasion of it. 

“This impudent young puppy wouldn’t let 
the books alone!” began Mr. Timmins. “I 
threatened to turn him out if he didn’t; and I 
meant to make good my threat. I think he 
meant to steal something.” 

Bobby was astonished and shocked at this 
bold imputation; but he wished to have his 
case judged on its own merits, so he turned 
his face away, that Mr. Bayard might not rec- 
ognize him. 

“I wanted to buy one of these blank books,” 
added Bobby, picking up the one he had 
dropped on the floor in the struggle. 

“All stuff!” ejaculated Timmins. “He is an 
impudent, obstinate puppy! In my opinion 
he meant to steal that book.” 

“I asked him the price, and told him I 
wanted to buy it,” added Bobby, still averting 
his face. 


70 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Well, I told him; and he said it was too 
high. ’ ’ 

“He asked me twenty-five cents for it.” 

“Is this true, Timmins?” asked Mr. Bayard, 
sternly. 

“No, sir! I told him fourpence,” replied Tim- 
mins boldly. 

“By gracious! What a whopper !” exclaimed 
Bobby, started out of his propriety by this 
monstrous lie. “He said twenty-five cents; and 
I told him I could buy one up in Riverdale, 
where I came from, for six cents. Can you 
deny that?” 

“It’s a lie!” protested Timmins. 

“Riverdale,” said Mr. Bayard. “Are you 
from Riverdale, boy?” 

“Yes, sir, I am; and if you will look on your 
memorandum book you will find my name 
there.” 

“Bless me! I am sure I have seen that face 
before,” exclaimed Mr. Bayard, as he grasped 
the hand of Bobby, much to the astonishment 
and consternation of Mr. Timmins. “You 
are ’ ’ 

“Robert Bright, sir.” 

“My brave little fellow! I am heartily glad 
to see you;” and the bookseller shook the 
hand he held with hearty good-will. “I was 
thinking of you only a little while ago.” 

“This fellow calls me a liar, ” said Bobby, 
pointing to the astonished Mr. Timmins, who 
did not know what to make of the cordial re- 
ception which “Country” was receiving from 
his employer. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


71 


“Well, Robert, we know that he is a liar; this 
is not the first time he has been caught in a lie. 
Timmins, your time is out. ’ ’ 

The spruce clerk hung his head with shame 
and mortification. 

“I hope, sir, you will ” he began, but 

pride or fear stopped him short. 

“Don’t be hard with him, sir, if you please,” 
said Bobby. “I suppose I aggravated him. ” 

Mr. Bayard looked at the gentleman who 
stood by his side, and a smile of approbation 
lighted up his face. 

“Generous as he is noble! Butler, this is 
the boy that saved Ellen.” 

“Indeed! He is a little giant!” replied Mr. 
Butler, grasping Bobby’s hand. 

Even Timmins glanced with something like 
admiration in his looks at the youth whom 
he had so lately despised. Perhaps, too, he 
thought of that Scripture wisdom about enter- 
taining angels unawares. He was very much 
abashed, and nothing but his silly pride pre- 
vented him from acknowledging his error, and 
begging Bobby’s forgiveness. 

“I can’t have a liar about me,” said Mr. 
Bayard. 

“There may be some mistake,” suggested 
Mr. Butler. 

“I think not. Robert Bright couldn’t lie. 
So brave and noble a boy is incapable of a 
falsehood. Besides, I got a letter from my 
friend Squire Lee by this morning’s mail, in 
which he informed me of my young friend’s 
coming. ” 


72 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Mr. Bayard took from his pocket a bundle of 
letters, and selected the squire’s from among 
them. Opening it, he read a passage which 
had a direct bearing upon the case before 
him. 

“ ‘I do not know what Bobby’s faults are, ’ ” 
— the letter said, — “ ‘but this I do know: that 
Bobby would rather be whipped than tell a lie. 
He is noted through the place for his love of 
truth. ’ — That is pretty strong testimony ; and 
you see, Bobby, — that’s what the squire calls 
you, — your reputation has preceded you.” 

Bobby blushed, as he always did when he 
was praised, and Mr. Timmins was more 
abashed than ever. 

‘‘Did you hear that, Timmins? Who is the 
liar now?” said Mr. Bayard, turning to the 
culprit. 

‘‘Forgive me, sir, this time. If you turn me 
off now, I cannot get another place, and my 
mother depends upon my wages.” 

‘‘You ought to have thought of this before.” 

‘‘He aggravated me, sir, so that I wanted to 
pay him off. ’ ’ 

‘‘As to .that, he commenced upon me the 
moment I came into the store. But don’t 
turn him off, if you please, sir,” said Bobby, 
who even now wished no harm to his discom- 
fited assailant. “He will do better hereafter; 
won’t you, Timmins?” 

Thus appealed to, Timmins, though he did 
not relish so direct an inquiry, and from such 
a source, was compelled to reply in the affirm- 
ative ; and Mr. Bayard graciously remitted the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


73 


sentence he had passed against the offending 
clerk. 

“Now, Robert, yon will come over to my 
house and dine with me. Ellen will be de- 
lighted to see you.” 

“Thank you, sir,” replied Bobby, bashfully, 
“I have been to dinner” — referring to the 
luncheon he had eaten at Brighton. 

“But you must go to the house with me.” 

“I should be very glad to do so, sir, but I 
came on business. I will stay here with Mr. 
Timmins till you come back.” 

The truth is, he had heard something about 
the fine houses of the city, and how stylish the 
people were, and he had some misgivings 
about venturing into such a strange and un- 
tried scene as the parlor of a Boston merchant. 

“Indeed, you must come with me. Ellen 
would never forgive you or me, if you do not 
come. ” 

“I would rather rest here till you return,” 
replied Bobby, still willing to escape the fine 
house and the fine folks. “I walked from 
Riverdale, sir, and I am rather tired.” 

“Walked!” exclaimed Mr. Bayard. “Had 
you no money?” 

“Yes, sir, enough to pay my passage; but 
Dr. Franklin says that ‘a penny saved is a 
penny earned, ’ and I thought I would try it. 
I shall get rested by the time you return.” 

“But you must go with me. Timmins, go 
and get a carriage.” 

Timmins obeyed, and before Mr. Bayard had 
finished asking Bobby how all the people in 


74 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Riverdale were, the carriage was at the door. 
There was no backing out now, and our hero 
was obliged to get into the vehicle, though it 
seemed altogether too fine for a poor boy like 
him. Mr. Bayard and Mr. Butler (whom the 
former had invited to dine with him), seated 
themselves beside . him, and the driver was 
directed to set them down at No. — , Chestnut 
Street, where they soon arrived. 

Though my readers would, no doubt, be very 
much amused to learn how carefully Bobby 
trod the velvet carpets, how he stared with 
wonder at the drapery curtains, at the tall mir- 
rors, the elegant chandeliers, and the fantas- 
tically shaped chairs and tables that adorned 
Mr. Bayard’s parlor, the length of our story 
does not permit us to pause over these trivial 
matters. 

When Ellen Bayard was informed that her 
little deliverer was in the house, she rushed 
into the parlor like a hoyden school girl, 
grasped both his hands, kissed both his rosy 
cheeks, and behaved just as though she had 
never been to a boarding school in her life. 

She had thought a great deal about Bobby 
since that eventful day, and the more she 
thought of him, the more she liked him. Her 
admiration of him was not of that silly, sen- 
timental character which moonstruck young 
ladies cherish towards those immaculate young 
men who have saved them from drowning in 
a horse-pond, pulled them back just as they 
were tumbling over a precipice two thousand 
five hundred feet high, or rescued them from a 


NOW OR NEVER. 


75 


house seven stories high, bearing them down a 
ladder seventy-five odd feet long. The fact 
was, Bobby was a boy of thirteen, and there 
was no chance for much sentiment; so the 
young lady’s regard was real, earnest, and 
lifelike. 

Ellen said a great many very handsome 
things; but I am sure she never thought of 
such a thing as that he would run away with 
her, in case her papa was unnecessarily obsti- 
nate. She was very glad to see him, and I 
have no doubt she wished Bobby might be her 
brother, it would be so glorious to have such a 
noble little fellow always with her. 

Bobby managed the dinner much better than 
he had anticipated; for Mr. Bayard insisted 
that he should sit down with them, whether he 
ate anything or not. But the Rubicon passed, 
our hero found that he had a pretty smart ap- 
petite, and did full justice to the viands set 
before him. It is true the silver forks, the 
napkins, the finger bowls, and other articles of 
luxury and show, to which he had been entirely 
unaccustomed, bothered him not a little ; but 
he kept perfectly cool, and carefully observed 
how Mr. Butler, who sat next to him, handled 
the “spoon fork,” what he did with the 
napkin and the finger bowl, so that, I will 
venture to say, not one in ten would have 
suspected he had not spent his life in the parlor 
of a millionaire. 

Dinner over, the party returned to the parlor, 
where Bobby unfolded his plan for the future.' 


76 


NOW OR NEVER. 


To make his story intellligible, he was obliged 
to tell them all about Mr. Hardhand. 

“The old wretch!” exclaimed Mr. Bayard. 
“But, Robert, you must let me advance the 
sixty dollars, to pay Squire Lee. ’ ’ 

“No, sir; you have done enough in that way. 
I have given my note for the money.” 

“Whew!” said Mr. Butler. 

“And I shall soon earn enough to pay 
it.” 

“No doubt of it. You are a lad of courage 
and energy, and you will succeed in everything 
you undertake. ” 

“I shall want you to trust me for a stock of 
books on the strength of old acquaintance,” 
continued Bobby, who had now grown quite 
bold, and felt as much at home in the midst of 
the costly furniture, as he did in the “living 
room” of the old black house. 

“You shall have all the books you want. ” 

“I will pay for them as soon as I return. The 
truth is, Mr. Bayard, I mean to be independent. 
I didn’t want to take that thirty-five dollars, 
though I don’t know what Mr. Hardhand 
would have done to us, if I hadn’t.” 

“Ellen said I ought to have given you a 
hundred, and I think so myself.” 

“I am glad you didn’t. Too much money 
makes us fat and lazy.” 

Mr. Bayard laughed at the easy self-posses- 
sion of the lad — at his big talk ; though, big as 
it was. it meant something. When he proposed 
to go to the store, he told Bobby he had better 
stay at the house and rest himself. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


77 


“No, sir; I want to start out to-morrow, and 
I must get ready to-day. ’ * 

“You had better put it off till the next day; 
you will feel more like it then. ’ ’ 

“Now or never,” replied Bobby. “That is 
my motto, sir. If we have anything to do, now 
is always the best time to do it. Dr. Franklin 
says, ‘Never put off till to-morrow what you 
can do to-day. ’ ’ ’ 

“Right, Robert! you shall have your own 
way. I wish my clerks would adopt some of 
Dr. Franklin’s wise saws. I should be a 
great deal better off in the course of a year if 
they would. ’ ’ 


78 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH BOBBY OPENS VARIOUS ACCOUNTS, AND 
WINS HIS FIRST VICTORY. 

“Now, Bobby, I understand your plan,” 
said Mr. Bayard, when they reached the store ; 
“but the details must be settled. Where do 
you intend to go?” 

“I hardly know, sir. I suppose I can sell 
books almost anywhere.” 

“Very true; but in some places much better 
than in others.” 

Mr. Bayard mentioned a large town about 
eighteen miles from the city, in which he 
thought a good trade might be carried on, and 
Bobby at once decided to adopt the sugges- 
tion. 

“You can make this place your headquarters 
for the week ; if books do not sell well right in 
the village, why, you can go out a little way, 
for the country in the vicinity is peopled by 
intelligent farmers, who are well off, and who 
can afford to buy books. ’ ’ 

“I was thinking of that; but what shall I 
take with me, sir?” 

“There is a new book just published, called 
‘The Wayfarer,’ which is going to have a tre- 
mendous run. It has been advertised in ad- 


NOW OR NEVER. 


79 


vance all over the country so that you will find 
a ready sale for it. You will get it there before 
any one else, and have the market all to your- 
self. ” 

“The Wayfarer? I have heard of it myself. ” 
“You shall take fifty copies with you, and if 
you find that you shall want more, write, and 
I will send them. ” 

“But I cannot carry fifty copies.” 

“You must take the cars to B , and have 

a trunk or box to carry your books in. I have 
a stout trunk down cellar which you shall 
have. ’ * 

“I will pay for it, sir.” 

“Never mind that, Bobby; and you will 
want a small valise or carpet bag to carry your 
books from house to house. I will lend you 
one.” 

“You are very kind, sir; I did not mean to 
ask any favors of you except to trust me for 
the books until my return. ” 

“All right, Bobby.” 

Mr. Bayard called the porter, and ordered 
him to bring up the trunk, in which he directed 
Mr. Timmins to pack fifty “Wayfayers. ” 
“Now, how much will these books cost me 
apiece?” asked Bobby. 

“The retail price is one dollar; the wholesale 
price is one third off ; and you shall have them 
at what they cost me. ’ ’ 

“Sixty-seven cents,” added Bobby. “That 
will give me a profit of thirty-three cents on 
each book. ” 

“Just so.” 


80 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Perhaps Mr. Timmins will sell me one of 
those blank books now; for I like to have 
things down in black and white.” 

“I will furnish you with something much 
better than that;” and Mr. Bayard left the 
counting room. 

In a moment he returned with a handsome 
pocket memorandum book, which he pre- 
sented to the little merchant. 

“But I don’t like to take it unless you will 
let me pay for it,” said Bobby, hesitating. 

“Never mind it, my young friend. Now you 
can sit down at my desk and open your ac- 
counts. I like to see boys methodical, and 
there is nothing like keeping accounts to make 
one accurate. Keep your books posted up, 
and you will know where you are at any time. ’ ’ 

“I intend to keep an account of all I spend 
and all I receive, if it is no more than a cent. ” 

“Right, my little man. Have you ever 
studied book-keeping?” 

“No, sir, I suppose I haven’t; but there was 
a page of accounts in the back part of the 
arithmetic I ‘studied, and I got a pretty good 
idea of the thing from that. All the money 
received goes on one side, and all the money 
paid out goes on the other. ’* 

“Exactly so; in this book you had better 
open a book account first. If you wish I will 
show you how. ’ * 

“Thank you, sir; I should be very glad to 
have you;” and Bobby opened the memoran- 
dum book, and seated himself at the desk. 

“Write ‘Book Account’ at the top of the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


81 


pages, one word on each. Very well. Now 
write ‘To fifty copies of Wayfarer, at sixty- 
seven cents, $33.50/ on the left hand page, or 
debit side of the account.” 

‘‘I am not much of a writer,” said Bobby, 
apologetically. 

“You will improve. Now, each day you will 
credit the amount of sales on the right-hand 
page, or credit side of the account ; so, when 
you have sold out, the balance due your debit 
side will be the profit on the lot. Do you 
understand it?” 

Bobby thought a moment before he could see 
through it; but his brain was active, and he 
soon managed the idea. 

“Now you want a personal account;” and 
Mr. Bayard explained to him how to make this 
out. 

He then instructed him to enter on the debit 
side all he spent for travel, board, freight, and 
other charges. The next was the “profit and 
loss’ ’ account, which was to show him the net 
profit of the business. 

Our hero, who had a decided taste for 
accounts, was very much pleased with this 
employment; and when the accounts were all 
opened, he regarded them with a great deal of 
satisfaction. He longed to commence his 
operations, if it were only for the pleasure of 
making the entries in this book. 

“One thing I forgot,” said he, as he seized 
the pen, and under the cash account entered, 
“To cash from mother, $1.00.” “Now I am 
all right, I believe.” 

6 Now or Never 


82 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“I think you are. Now, the cars leave at 
seven in the morning. Can you be ready for 
a start as early as that?” asked Mr. Bayard. 

”0, yes, sir, I hope so. I get up at half-past 
four at home. ’ ’ 

“Very well; my small valise is at the house; 
but I believe everything else is ready. Now, 
I have some business to attend to; and if you 
will amuse yourself for an hour or two, we 
will go home then.” 

“I shall want a lodging place when I am in 
the city; perhaps some of your folks can direct 
me to one where they won’t chaige too 
much. ” 

“As to that, Bobby, you must go to my 
house whenever you are in the city.” 

“Law, sir! you live so grand, I couldn’t think 
of going to your house. I am only a poor boy 
from the country, and I don’t know how to 
behave myself among such nice folks.” 

“You will do very well, Bobby. Ellen would 
never forgive me if I let you go anywhere else. 
So that is settled; you will go to my house. 
Now, you may sit here, or walk out and see 
the sights. ” 

“If you please, sir, if Mr. Timmins will let 
me look at some of the books, I shouldn’t wish 
for anything better. I should like to look at 
The Wayfarer, so that I shall know how to 
recommend it. ” 

“Mr. Timmins will let you,” replied Mr. 
Bayard, as he touched the spring of a bell on 
his desk. 

The dapper clerk came running into the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


83 


counting-room to attend the summons of his 
employer. 

“Mr. Timmins,” continued Mr. Bayard, with 
a mischievous smile, “bring Mr. Bright a copy 
of ‘The Wayfarer.’ ’’ 

Mr. Timmins was astonished to hear “Coun- 
try” called “Mister,” astonished to hear his 
employer call him “Mister,” and Bobby was 
astonished to hear himself called “Mister;” 
nevertheless, our hero enjoyed the joke. 

The clerk brought the book; and Bobby pro- 
ceeded to give it a thorough, critical examina- 
tion. He read the preface, the table of con- 
tents, and several chapters of the work, before 
Mr. Bayard was ready to go home. 

“How do you like it, Bobby?” asked the 
bookseller. 

“First rate.” 

“You may take that copy in your hand; you 
will want to finish it. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, sir; I will be careful of it.” 

“You may keep it. Let that be the begin- 
ning of your own private library.” 

His own private library ! Bobby had not got 
far enough to dream of such a thing yet ; but 
he thanked Mr. Bayard, and put the book 
under his arm. 

After tea, Ellen proposed to her father that 
they should all go to the Museum. Mr. Bay- 
ard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at 
the drolleries perpetrated there. He had a 
good time ; but it was so late when he went to 
bed, that he was a little fearful lest he should 
oversleep himself in the morning. 


84 


NOW OR NEVER. 


He did not, however, and was down in the 
parlor before any of the rest of the family were 
stirring. An early breakfast was prepared for 
him, at which Mr. Bayard, who intended to see 
him off, joined him. Depositing his little 
bundle and the copy of “The Wayfarer” in 
the valise provided for him, they walked to the 
store. The porter wheeled the trunk down to 
the railroad station, though Bobby insisted 
upon doing it himself. 

The bookseller saw him and his baggage 
safely aboard of the cars, gave him a ticket, and 
then bade him an affectionate adieu. In a 
little while Bobby was flying over the rail, and 
at about eight o’clock, reached B . 

The station master kindly permitted him to 
deposit his trunk in the baggage room, and to 
leave it there for the remainder of the week. 

Taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, 
and placing them in his valise, he sallied out 
upon his mission. It must be confessed that 
his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. 
The battle of life was before him. He was on 
the field, sword in hand, ready to plunge into 
the contest. It was victory or defeat. 

“March on, brave youth! the field of strife 
With peril fraught before thee lies; 

March on ! the battle plain of life 
Shall yield thee yet a glorious prize.” 

It was of no use to shrink then, even if he 
had felt disposed to do so. He was prepared 
to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned 


NOW OR NEVER. 


85 


away from the doors at which he should seek 
admission ; but he was determined to conquer. 

He had reached a house at which he pro- 
posed to offer “The Wayfarer” for sale. His 
heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused 
before the door. 

“Now or never!” exclaimed he, as he swung 
open the garden gate, and made his way up to 
the door. 

He felt some misgivings. It was so new 
and strange to him that he could hardly mus- 
ter sufficient resolution to proceed farther. 
But his irresolution was of only a moment’s 
duration. 

“Now or never!” and he gave a vigorous 
knock at the door. 

It was opened by an elderly lady, whose 
physiognomy did not promise much. 

“Good morning, ma’am. Can I sell you a 
copy of ‘The Wayfarer’ to-day? a new book, 
just published.” 

“No; I don’t want none of your books. 
There’s more peddlers round the country now 
than you could shake a stick at in a month,” 
replied the old lady, petulantly. 

“It is a very interesting book, ma’am; has 
an excellent moral.” Bobby had read the 
preface, as I before remarked. “It will suit 
you, ma’am; for you look just like a lady who 
wants to read something with a moral. ’ ’ 

Bravo, Bobby ! The lady concluded that her 
face had a moral expression, and she was 
pleased with the idea. 

“Let me see it;” and she asked Bobby to 


86 


NOW OR NEVER. 


walk in and be seated, while she went for her 
spectacles. 

As she was looking over the book, our hero 
went into a more elaborate recommendation of 
its merits. He was sure it would interest the 
young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it 
had elegant engravings; the t3 r pe was large, 
which would suit her eyes ; it was well printed 
and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one 
dollar. 

“I’ll take it,” said the old lady. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

Bobby’s first victory was achieved. 

“Have you got a dollar?” asked the lady, as 
she handed him a two-dollar bill. 

“Yes, ma’am;” and he gave her his only 
dollar, and put the two in its place, prouder 
than a king who has conquered an empire. 
“Thank you, ma’am.” 

Bidding the lady a polite good morning, he 
left the house, encouraged by his success to go 
forward in his mission with undiminished hope. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


87 


CHAPTER X. 

’IN WHICH BOBBY IS A LITTLE TOO SMART. 

The clouds were rolled back, and Bobby no 
longer had a doubt as to the success of his 
undertaking. It requires but a little sunshine 
to gladden the heart, and the influence of his 
first success scattered all the misgivings he had 
cherished. 

Two New England shillings is undoubtedly 
a very small sum of money; but Bobby had 
made two shillings, and he would not have 
considered himself more fortunate if some 
unknown relative had left him a fortune. It 
gave him confidence in his powers, and as he 
walked away from the house, he reviewed the 
circumstances of his first sale. 

The old lady had told him at first she did not 
wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken 
rather contemptuously of the craft to which 
he had now the honor to belong. He gave 
himself the credit of having conquered the old 
lady’s prejudices. He had sold her a book in 
spite of her evident intention not to purchase. 
In short, he had, as we have before said, won 
a glorious victory, and he congratulated him- 
self accordingly. 

But it was of no use to waste time in useless 


88 


NOW OR NEVER. 


self-glorification, and Bobby turned from the 
past to the future. There were forty-nine 
more books to be sold; so that the future was 
forty-nine times as big as the past. 

He saw a shoemaker’s shop ahead of him; 
and he was debating with himself whether he 
should enter and offer his books for sale. It 
would do no harm, though he had but slight 
expectations of doing anything. 

There were three men at work in the shop — 
one of them a middle-aged man, the other two 
young men. They looked like persons of intel- 
ligence, and as soon as Bobby saw them his 
hopes grew stronger. 

“Can I sell you any books to-day?” asked 
the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold. 

“Well, I don’t know; that depends upon 
how smart you are,” replied the eldest of the 
men. “It takes a pretty smart fellow to sell 
anything in this shop.” 

“Then I hope to sell each of you a book,” 
added Bobby, laughing at the badinage of the 
shoemaker. 

Opening his valise he took out three copies 
of his book, and politely handed one to each of 
the men. 

“It isn’t every book peddler that comes along 
who offers you such a work as that. ‘The 
Wayfarer’ is decidedly the book of the season. ” 

“You don’t say so!” said the oldest shoe- 
maker, with a laugh. “Every peddler that 
comes along uses those words, precisely.” 

“Do they? They steal my thunder then. ” 

“You are an old one.” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


89 


“Only thirteen. I was born where they 
don’t fasten the door with a boiled carrot. ” 

“What do they fasten them with?” 

“They don’t fasten them at all.” 

“There are no book peddlers round there, 
then;” and all the shoemakers laughed heart- 
ily at this smart sally. 

“No; they are all shoemakers in our town.” 

“You can take my hat, boy.” 

“You will want it to put your head in; but 
I will take one dollar for that book instead. ’ ’ 
The man laughed, took out his wallet, and 
handed Bobby the dollar, probably quite as 
much because he had a high appreciation of 
his smartness, as from any desire to possess the 
book. 

“Won’t you take one?” asked Bobby, appeal- 
ing to another of the men, who was apparently 
not more than twenty-four years of age. 

“No; I can’t read,” replied he, roguishly. 

“Let your wife read it to you then.” 

“My wife?” 

“Certainly; she knows how to read, I will 
warrant. ’ ’ 

“How do you know I have got a wife?” 

“O, well, a fellow as good-looking and good- 
natured as you are could not have resisted till 
this time.” 

“Has you, Tom,” added the oldest shoe- 
maker. 

“I cave in;” and he handed over the dollar, 
and laid the book upon his bench. 

Bobby looked at the third man with some 
interest. He had said nothing, and scarcely 


90 


NOW OR NEVER. 


heeded the fun which was passing between the 
little merchant and his companions. He was 
apparently absorbed in his examination of the 
book. He was a different kind of person from 
th(e others, and Bobby’s instinctive knowledge 
of human nature assured him that he was not 
to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings ; 
so he placed himself in front of him, and 
patiently waited in silence for him to complete 
his examination. 

“You will find that he is a hard one,’’ put in 
one of the others. 

Bobby made no reply, and the two men who 
had bought books resumed their work. For 
five minutes our hero stood waiting for the 
man to finish his investigation into the merits 
of “The Wayfarer.” Something told him not 
to say anything to this person; and he had 
some doubts about his purchasing. 

“I will take one,” said the last shoemaker, 
as he handed Bobby the dollar. 

“I am much obliged to you, gentlemen,” 
said Bobby, as he closed his valise. “When I 
come this way again I shall certainly call. ’ ’ 

“Do; you have done what no other peddler 
ever did in this shop.” 

“I shall take no credit to myself. The fact 
is, you are men of intelligence, and you want 
good books. ’ ’ 

Bobby picked up his valise and left the 
shop, satisfied with those who occupied it, and 
satisfied with himself. 

“Eight shillings!” exclaimed he, when he 


NOW OR NEVER. 


91 


got into the road. “Pretty good hour’s work, 
I should say. “ 

Bobby trudged along till he came to a very 
large, elegant house, evidently dwelt in by 

one of the nabobs of B- . Inspired by past 

successes, he walked boldly up to the front 
door and rang the bell. 

“Is Mr. Whiting in?” asked Bobby, who had 
read the name on the door plate. 

“Colonel Whiting is in,” replied the serv- 
ant, who had opened the door. 

“I should like to see him for a moment, if 
he isn’t busy. ’’ 

“Walk in;’’ and for some reason or other the 
servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted 
him. 

She conducted him to a large, elegantly fur- 
nished parlor, where Bobby proceeded to take 
out his books for the inspection of the nabob, 
whom the servant promised to send to the 
parlor. 

In a moment Colonel Whiting entered. He 
was a large, fat man, about fifty years old. 
He looked at the little book merchant with a 
frown that would have annihilated a boy less 
spunky than our hero. Bobby was not a 
little inflated by the successes of the morning, 
and if Julius Caesar or Napoleon Bonaparte 
had stood before him then, he would not have 
flinched a hair — much less in the presence of 
no greater magnate than the nabob of B . 

“Good morning, Colonel Whiting. I hope 
you are well this beautiful morning,’’ Bobby 
began. 


92 


NOW OR NEVER. 


I must confess I think this was a little too 
familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman 
of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his 
life; but it must be remembered that Bobby 
had done a great deal the week before, that on 
the preceding night he had slept in Chestnut 
Street, and that he had just sold four copies of 
“The Wayfarer.” He was inclined to be 
smart, and some folks hate smart boys. 

The nabob frowned: his cheek reddened 
with anger; but he did not condescend to 
make any reply to the smart speech. 

“I have taken the liberty to call upon you 
this morning, to see if you did not wish to pur- 
chase a copy of ‘The Wayfarer’ — a new book 
just issued from the press, which people say is 
to be the book of the season.” 

My young readers need not suppose that 
this was an impromptu speech, for Bobby had 
studied upon it all the time he was coming 
from Boston in the cars. It would be quite 
natural for a boy who had enjoyed no greater 
educational advantages than our hero to con- 
sider how he should address people into whose 
presence his calling would bring him ; and he 
had prepared several little addresses of this 
sort, for the several different kinds of people 
whom he expected to encounter. The one he 
had just “got off” was designed for the 
* ‘ upper crust. ’ ’ 

When he had delivered the speech, he ap- 
proached the indignant, frowning nabob, and 
with a low bow, offered him a copy of “The 
Wayfarer. ” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


93 


‘ ‘ Boy, ’ ’ said Colonel Whiting, raising his arm 
with majestic dignity, and pointing to the 
door, — “boy, do you see that door?” 

Bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat 
astonished, replied that he did see it, that it 
was a very handsome door, and he would in- 
quire whether it was black walnut, or only 
painted in imitation thereof. 

“Do you see that door?” thundered the 
nabob, swelling with rage at the cool im- 
pudence of the boy. 

“Certainly I do, sir; my eyesight is excel- 
lent.” 

“Then use it!” 

“Thank you, sir; I have no use for it. Prob- 
ably it will be of more service to you than to 

* 9 9 

me. 

“Will you clear out, or shall I kick you 
out?” gasped the enraged magnate of B . 

“I will save you that trouble, sir; I will go, 
sir. I see we have both made a mistake.” 

“Mistake? What do you mean by that, .you 
young puppy? You are a little impudent, 
thieving scoundrel !” 

“That’s your mistake, sir. I took you for 
a gentleman, sir; and that was my mis- 
take. ’ ’ 

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed a sweet, musical 
voice, and at that moment a beautiful young 
lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and 
threw her arms around his neck. 

“The jade!” muttered he. 

“I have caught you in a passion again, 
uncle;” and the lady kissed the old gentle- 


94 


NOW OR NEVER. 


man’s anger-reddened cheek, which seemed 
to restore him at once to himself. 

“It was enough to make a minister swear,” 
said he in apology. 

“No, it wasn’t, uncle; the boy was a little 
pert, it is true ; but you ought to have laughed 
at him, instead of getting angry. I heard the 
whole of it. ” 

“Pert?” said Bobby to himself. “What the 
deuce does she mean by that?” 

“Very well, you little minx; I will pay the 
penalty. ” 

“Come here, Master Pert,” said the lady to 
Bobby. 

Bobby bowed, approached the lady, and 
began to feel very much embarrassed. 

“My uncle,” she continued, “is one of the 
best hearted men in the world — ain’t you, 
uncle?” 

“Go on, you jade!” 

“I love him, as I would my own father; but 
he will sometimes get into a passion. Now, 
you provoked him.” 

“Indeed, ma’am, I hadn’t the least idea of 
saying anything uncivil,” pleaded Bobby. “I 
studied to be as polite as possible. ” 

“I dare say. You were too important, too 
pompous, for a boy to an old gentleman like 
uncle, who is really one of the best men in the 
world. Now, if you hadn’t studied to be polite, 
you would have done very well. ’ ’ 

“Indeed, ma’am, I am a poor boy trying to 
make a little money to help my mother. I 
am sure I meant no harm.” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


95 


“I know yon didn’t. So you are selling 
books to help your mother?” 

“Yes, ma’am. ” 

She inquired still further into the little mer- 
chant’s history, and seemed to be very much 
interested in him. 

In a frolic, a few days before, Bobby learned 
from her, Colonel Whiting had agreed to pay 
any penalty she might name, the next time 
he got into a passion. 

“Now, young man, what book have you to 
sell?” asked the lady. 

“ ‘The Wayfarer.’ ” 

“How many have you in your valise?” 
“Eight.” 

“Very well; now, uncle, I decree, as the 
penalty of your indiscretion, that you purchase 
the whole stock.” 

“I submit. ” 

“ ‘The Wayfarer’ promises to be an excel- 
lent book; and I can name at least half a 
dozen persons who will thank you for a copy, 
uncle. ’ ’ 

Colonel Whiting paid Bobby eight dollars, 
who left the contents of his valise on the cen- 
ter table, and then departed, astounded at his 
good fortune, and fully resolved never to be 
too smart again. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


96 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN WHICH BOBBY STRIKES A BALANCE, AND RE- 
TURNS TO RIVERDALE. 

Our hero had learned a lesson which experi- 
ence alone could teach him. The conscious- 
ness of that “something within him” inclined 
him to be a little too familiar with his elders ; 
but then it gave him confidence in himself, 
and imparted courage to go forward in the ac- 
complishment of his mission. His interview 
with Colonel Whiting and the gentle but plain 
rebuke of his niece had set him right, and he 
realized that, while he was doing a man’s 
work, he was still a boy. He had now a 
clearer perception of what is due to the posi- 
tion and dignity of those upon whom fortune 
has smiled. 

Bobby wanted to be a man, and it is not 
strange that he should sometimes fancy he was 
a man. He had an idea, too, that “all men 
are born free and equal;’’ and he could not ex- 
actly see why a nabob was entitled to any 
more respect and consideration than a poor 
man. It was a lesson he was compelled to 
learn, though some folks live out their life 
times without ever finding out that. 

“ ’Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable 



‘He handed the ragged boy the fourpence.” — Page 102. 

Now or Never. 












































NOW OR NEVER. 


97 


men.” Some people think a rich man is no 
better than a poor man, except so far as he 
behaves himself better. It is strange how 
stupid some people are ! 

Bobby had no notion of cringing to any man, 
and he felt as independent as the Declaration 
of Independence itself. But then the beautiful 
lady had told him that he was pert and for- 
ward ; and when he thought it over, he was 
willing to believe she was right. Colonel Whit- 
ing was an old man, compared with himself; 
and he had some faith, at least in theory, in the 
Spartan virtue of respect for the aged. Prob- 
ably the nabob of B would have objected 

to being treated with respect on account of his 
age ; and Bobby would have been equally un- 
willing to acknowledge that he treated him 
with peculiar respect on account of his wealth 
or position. 

Perhaps the little merchant had an instinct- 
ive perception of expediency — that he should 
sell more books by being less familiar: at any 
rate he determined never again to use the 
flowery speeches he had arranged for the 
upper crust. 

He had sold a dozen books ; and possibly this 
fact made him more willing to compromise 
the matter than he would otherwise have been. 
This was, after all, the great matter for con- 
gratulation, and with a light heart he hurried 
back to the railroad station to procure another 
supply. 

We cannot follow him into every house 
where his calling led him. He was not always 

7 Now or Never 


98 


NOW OR NEVER. 


as fortunate as in the instances we have men- 
tioned. Sometimes all his arguments were un- 
availing, and after he had spent half an hour 
of valuable time in setting forth the merits of 
“The Wayfarer, ” he was compelled to retire 
without having effected a sale. Sometimes, 
too, he was rudely repulsed; hard epithets 
were applied to him ; old men and old women, 
worried out by the continued calls of peddlers, 
sneered at him, or shut the door in his face; 
but Bobby was not disheartened. He perse- 
vered, and did not allow these little trials to 
discompose or discourage him. 

By one o’clock on the first day of his service 
he had sold eighteen books, which far ex- 
ceeded even his most sanguine expectations. 
By this time he began to feel the want of his 
dinner; but there was no tavern, or eating- 
house at hand, and he could not think of leav- 
ing the harvest to return to the railroad sta- 
tion ; so he bought a sheet of gingerbread and 
a piece of cheese at a store, and seating him- 
self near a brook by the side of the road, he 
bolted his simple meal, as boys are very apt 
to do when they are excited. 

When he had finished, he took out his 
account book, and entered, “Dinner, io 
cents.” Resuming his business, he disposed 
of the remaining six books in his valise by the 
middle of the afternoon, and was obliged to 
return for another supply. 

About six o’clock he entered the house of a 
mechanic, just as the family were sitting down 
to tea. He recommended his book with so 


NOW OR NEVER. 


99 


much energy, that the wife of the mechanic 
took a fancy to him, and not only purchased 
one, but invited him to tea. Bobby accepted 
the invitation, and in the course of the meal, 
the good lady drew from him the details of his 
history, which he very modestly related, for 
though he sometimes fancied himself a man, 
he was not the boy to boast of his exploits. 
His host was so much pleased with him, that 
he begged him to spend the night with them. 
Bobby had been thinking how and where he 
should spend the night, and the matter had 
given him no little concern. He did not wish 
to go to the hotel, for it looked like a very 
smart house, and he reasoned that he should 
have to pay pretty roundly for accommoda- 
tions here. These high prices would eat up 
his profits, and he seriously deliberated 
whether it would not be better for him to sleep 
under a tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging. 

If I had been there I should have told him 
that a man loses nothing in the long run by 
taking good care of himself. He must eat 
well and sleep well, in order to do well and be 
well. But I suppose Bobby would have told 
me that it was of no use to pay a quarter extra 
for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the 
room would be so dark he could not see the 
gilt even if he wished to do so. I could not 
have said anything to such a powerful argu- 
ment; so I am very glad the mechanic’s wife 
set the matter at rest by offering him a bed in 
her house. 

He spent a very pleasant evening with the 

i.*r. 


100 


NOW OR NEVER. 


family, who made him feel entirely at home, 
they were so kind and so plain spoken. Before 
he went to bed, he entered under the book 
account, “By twenty-six Wayfarers sold this 
day, $26.00. ’’ 

He had done a big day’s work, much bigger 
than he could hope to do again. He had sold 
more than one half of his whole stock, and at 
this rate he should be out of books the next 
day. At first he thought he would send for 
another lot; but he could not judge yet what 
his average daily sales would be, and finally 
concluded not to do so. What he had might 
last till Friday or Saturday. He intended to 
go home on the latter day, and he could bring 
them with him on his return without expense. 
This was considerable of an argument for a 
boy to manage ; but Bobby was satisfied with 
it, and went to sleep, wondering what his 
mother, Squire Lee and Annie were thinking 
about that time. 

After breakfast the next morning he 
resumed his travels. He was as enthusiastic 
as ever, and pressed “The Wayfarer’’ with so 
much earnestness that he sold a book in nearly 
every house he visited. People seemed to be 
more interested in the little merchant than in 
his stock, and taking advantage of this kind 
feeling towards him, he appealed to them with 
so much eloquence that few could resist it. 

The result of the day’s sales was fifteen 
copies, which Bobby entered in the book 
account with the most intense satisfaction. 
He had outdone the boy who had passed 


NOW OR NEVER. 


101 


through Riverdale, but he had little hope that 
the harvest would always be so abundant. 

He often thought of this boy, from whom he 
had obtained the idea he was now carrying 
out. That boy had stopped over night at the 
little black house, and slept with him. He 
had asked for lodging, and offered to pay for 
it, as well as for his supper and his breakfast. 
Why couldn’t he do the same? He liked the 
suggestion, and from that time, wherever he 
happened to be, he asked for lodging, or the 
meal he required, and he always proposed to 
pay for what he had, but very few would take 
anything. 

On Friday noon he had sold out. Returning 
to the railroad station, he found that the train 
would not leave for the city for an hour ; so he 
improved the time in examining and balancing 
his accounts. The book sales amounted to just 
fifty dollars, and after his ticket to Boston was 
paid for, his expenses would amount to one 
dollar and fifty cents, leaving a balance in his 
favor of fifteen dollars. He was overjoyed with 
the result, and pictured the astonishment with 
which his mother, Squire Lee, and Annie 
would listen to the history of his excursion. 

About four o’clock that afternoon he entered 
the store of Mr. Bayard, bag and baggage. 
On his arrival in the city, he was considerably 
exercised in mind to know how he should get 
the trunk to his destination. He was too 
economical to pay a cartman a quarter ; but 
what would have seemed mean in a man was 
praiseworthy in a boy laboring for a noble end. 


102 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Probably a great many of my young readers 
in Bobby’s position, thinking that sixteen dol- 
lars, which our hero had in his pocket, was a 
mint of money, would have been in favor of 
being a little magnificent — of taking a carriage 
and going up-town in state. Bobby had not 
the least desire to “swell;” so he settled the 
matter by bargaining with a little ragged fel- 
low to help him carry the trunk to Mr. Bayard’s 
store for fourpence. 

“How do you do, Mr. Timmins?” said Bobby 
to the spruce clerk, as he deposited the trunk 
upon the floor, and handed the ragged boy the 
fourpence. 

“Ah, Bobby!” exclaimed Mr. Timmins. 
“Have you sold out?” 

“All clean. Is Mr. Bayard in?” 

“In the office. But how do you like it?” 

“First rate. ” 

“Well, every one to his taste; but I don’t 
see how any one who has any regard for his 
dignity can stick himself into everybody’s 
house. I couldn’t do it, I know.” 

“I don’t stand for the dignity.” 

“Ah, well, there is a difference in folks.” 

“That’s a fact, ’ ’ replied Bobby, as he hurried 
to the office of Mr. Bayard, leaving Mr. Tim- 
mins to sun himself in his own dignity. 

The bookseller was surprised to see him so 
soon, but he gave him a cordial reception. 

“I didn’t expect you yet,” said he. “Why 
do you come back? Have you got sick of the 
business?” 

“Sick of it! No, sir. ” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


103 


“What have you come back for then?” 

“Sold out, sir.” 

“Sold out! You have done well!” 

“Better than I expected.” 

“I had no idea of seeing you till to-morrow 
night; and I thought you would have books 
enough to begin the next week with. You 
have done bravely. ’ ’ 

“If I had had twenty more, I could have sold 
them before to-morrow night. Now, sir, if 
you please, I will pay you for those books, — 
thirty-three dollars and fifty cents.” 

“You had better keep that, Bobby. I will 
trust you as long as you wish. ’ ’ 

“If you please, sir, I had rather pay it;” 
and the little merchant, as proud as a lord, 
handed over the amount. 

“I like your way of doing business, Bobby. 
Nothing helps a man’s credit so much as 
paying promptly. Now tell me some of your 
adventures — or we will reserve them till this 
evening, for I am sure Ellen will be delighted 
to hear them. ” 

“I think I shall go to Riverdale this after- 
noon. The cars leave at half-past five.” 

“Very well ; you have an hour to spare. ” 

Bobby related to his kind friend the inci- 
dents of his excursion, including his interview 
with Colonel Whiting and his niece, which 
amused the bookseller very much. He volun- 
teered some good advice, which Bobby received 
in the right spirit, and with a determination to 
profit by it. 

At half-past five he took the cars for home, 


104 


NOW OR NEVER. 


and before dark was folded in his mother’s 
arms. The little black house seemed doubly 
dear to him now that he had been away from 
it a few days. His mother and all the children 
were so glad to see him that it seemed almost 
worth his while to go away for the pleasure of 
meeting them on his return. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


105 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN WHICH BOBBY ASTONISHES SUNDRY PERSONS, 
AND PAYS PART OF HIS NOTE. 

“Now, tell me, Bobby, how you have made 
out,” said Mrs. Bright, as the little merchant 
seated himself at the supper table. “You can- 
not have done much, for you have only been 
gone five days. * ’ 

“I have done pretty well, mother,” replied 
Bobby, mysteriously; “pretty well, consider- 
ing that I am only a boy.” 

“I didn’t expect to see you till to-morrow 
night.” 

“I sold out, and had to come home.” 

“That may be, and still you may not have 
done much.” 

“I don’t pretend that I have done much.” 

“How provoking you are! Why don’t you 
tell me, Bobby, what you have done?” 

“Wait a minute, mother, till I have done my 
supper, and then I will show 3 7 ou the footings 
in my ledger.” 

“Your ledger!” 

“Yes, my ledger. I keep a ledger now.” 

“You are a great man, Mr. Robert Bright,” 
laughed his mother. “I suppose the people 
took their hats off when they saw you coming. ’ ’ 


106 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Not exactly, mother.” 

“Perhaps the governor came out to meet you 
when he heard you was on the road. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps he did; I didn’t see him, however. 
This apple pie tastes natural, mother. It is a 
great luxury to get home after one has been 
traveling. ’ ’ 

“Very likely. ” 

“No place like home, after all is done and 
said. Who was the fellow that wrote that 
song, mother?” 

“I forget; the paper said he spent a great 
many years in foreign parts. My sake ! 
Bobby; one would think by your talk that you 
had been away from home for a year. ” 

“It seems like a year,” said he, as he trans- 
ferred another quarter of the famous apple pie 
to his plate. “I miss home very much. I 
don’t more than half like being among strang- 
ers so much. ’ ’ 

“It is your own choice; no one wants you to 
go away from home. ’ ’ 

“I must pay my debts, anyhow. Don’t I 
owe Squire Lee sixty dollars?” 

“But I can pay that.” 

“It is my affair, you see.” 

“If it is your affair, then I owe you sixty 
dollars. ’ ’ 

“No, you don’t; I calculate to pay my board 
now. I am old enough and big enough to do 
something. ” 

“You have done something ever since you 
was old enough to work.” 

“Not much; I don’t wonder that miserable 


NOW OR NEVER. 


107 


old hunker of a Hardhand twitted me about 
it. By the way, have you heard anything from 
him?” 

“Not a thing. ” 

“He has got enough of us, I reckon.” 

“You mustn’t insult him, Bobby, if you hap- 
pen to see him. ” 

“Never fear me.” 

“You know the Bible says we must love our 
enemies, and pray for them that despitefully 
use us and persecute us.” 

“I should pray that the Old Nick might get 
him. ” 

“No, Bobby; I hope you haven’t forgot all 
your Sunday school lessons. ’ ’ 

“I was wrong, mother,” replied Bobby, a 
little moved. “I did not mean so. I shall 
try to think as well of him as I can ; but I can’t 
help thinking, if all the world was like him, 
what a desperate hard time we should have of 
it.” 

“We must thank the Lord that he has given 
us so many good and true men. ” 

“Such as Squire Lee, for instance,” added 
Bobby, as he rose from the table and put his 
chair back against the wall. “The squire is 
fit to be a king ; and though I believe in the 
Constitution and the Declaration of Independ- 
ence, I wouldn’t mind seeing a crown upon his 
head. ” 

“He will receive his crown in due time,” 
replied Mrs. Bright, piously. 

“The Squire?” 

“The crown of rejoicing, I mean.” 


108 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Just so; the squire is a nice man; and I 
know another just like him. ” 

“Who?” 

“Mr. Bayard; they are as near alike as two 
peas. ” 

“I am dying to know about your journey.” 

“Wait a minute, mother, till we clear away 
the supper things;” and Bobby took hold, as 
he had been accustomed, to help remove and 
wash the dishes. 

“You needn’t help now, Bobby.” 

“Yes, I will, mother.” 

Somehow our hero’s visit to the city did not 
seem to produce the usual effect upon him ; 
for a great many boys, after they had been 
abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and 
wipe them. A week in town has made many 
a boy so smart that you couldn’t touch him 
with a ten-foot pole. It starches them up so 
stiff that sometimes they don’t know their own 
mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension 
to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue 
frock who had the honor of supporting them 
in childhood. 

Bobby was none of this sort. We lament 
that he had a habit of talking big — that is, of 
talking about business affairs in a style a little 
beyond his years. But he was modest to a 
fault, paradoxical as it may seem. He was 
always blushing when anybody spoke a pretty 
thing about him. Probably the circumstances 
of his position elevated him above the sphere 
of the mere boy; he had spent but little time 
in play, and his attention had been directed at 


NOW OR NEVER. 


109 


all times to the wants of his mother. He had 
thought a great deal about business, especially 
since the visit of the boy who sold books to the 
little black house. 

Some boys are born merchants, and from 
their earliest youth have a genius for trade. 
They think of little else. They “play shop” 
before they wear jackets, and drive a barter 
trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fish- 
ing lines long before they get into their teens. 
They are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste 
for commerce before they are old enough to 
know the meaning of the word. 

We saw a boy in school, not long since, give 
the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted 
quince — boys have a taste for raw quinces, 
strange as it may seem. Undoubtedly he had 
no talent for trade, and would make a very 
indifferent tin pedler. Our hero was shrewd. 
He always got the best end of the bargain; 
though, I am happy to say, his integrity was 
too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows. 

We have made this digression so that my 
young readers may know why Bobby was so 
much given to big talk. The desire to do 
something worthy of a good son turned his 
attention to matters above his sphere; and 
thinking of great things, he had come to talk 
great things. It was not a bad fault, after all. 
Boys need not necessarily be frivolous. Play 
is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its 
place, and is as much a part of the boy’s edu- 
cation as his grammar and arithmetic. It not 
only develops his muscles, but enlarges his 


110 


NOW OR NEVER. 


mental capacity; it not only fills with excite- 
ment the idle hours of the long day, but it 
sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy 
for the active duties of life. 

It need not be supposed, because Bobby had 
to turn his attention to serious things, that he 
was not fond of fun ; that he could not or did 
not play. At a game of round ball, he was a 
lucky fellow who secured him upon his side ; 
for the same energy which made him a useful 
son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult 
game. 

When the supper things were all removed, 
the dishes washed and put away, Bobby drew 
out his pocket memorandum book. It was a 
beautiful article, and Mrs. Bright was duly 
astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant 
workmanship. Very likely her first impulse 
was to reprove her son for such a piece of reck- 
less extravagance; but this matter was set 
right by Bobby’s informing her how it came 
into his possession. 

“Here is my ledger, mother,” he said, hand- 
ing her the book. 

Mrs. Bright put on her spectacles, and after 
bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memor- 
andum book, turned to the accounts. 

“Fifty books!” she exclaimed, as she read 
the first entry. 

“Yes, mother; and I sold them all.” 

“Fifty dollars!” 

“But I had to pay for the books out of that. ” 

“To be sure you had; but I suppose you 
made as much as ten cents a piece on them, 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Ill 


and that would be — let me see; ten times fifty 

“But I made more than that, I hope.” 

“How much?” 

The proud young merchant referred her to 
the profit and loss account, which exhibited a 
balance of fifteen dollars. 

‘ ‘Gracious ! Three dollars a day ! ’ * 

“Just so, mother. Now I will pay you the 
dollar I borrowed of you when I went away.’* 

“You didn’t borrow it of me.” 

“But I shall pay it. ” 

Mrs. Bright was astonished at this unex- 
pected and gratifying result. If she had dis- 
covered a gold mine in the cellar of the little 
black house, it could not have afforded her so 
much satisfaction; for this money was the 
reward of her son’s talent and energy. Her 
own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more 
than three or four dollars a week, and Bobby, 
a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen 
for five days’ work. She could scarcely 
believe the evidence of her own senses, and 
she ceased to wonder that he talked big. 

It was nearly ten o’clock when the widow and 
her son went to bed, so deeply were they 
interested in discussing our hero’s affairs. He 
had intended to call upon Squire Lee that 
night, but the time passed away so rapidly that 
he was obliged to defer it till the next day. 

After breakfast the following morning, he 
hastened to pay the intended visit. There 
was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom 
as he knocked at the squire’s door. He was 


112 


NOW OR NEVER. 


proud of the success he had achieved, and even 
then his cheek burned under the anticipated 
commendations which his generous friend 
would bestow upon him. Besides, Annie would 
be glad to see him, for she had expressed 
such a desire when they parted on the Mon- 
day preceding. I don’t think that Bobby cher- 
ished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the 
little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely 
upon his warm heart. In coming from the 
house he had placed his copy of “The Way- 
farer’’ under his arm, for Annie was fond of 
reading; and on the way over, he had pictured 
to himself the pleasure she would derive from 
reading his book. 

Of course he received a warm welcome from 
the squire and his daughter. Each of them 
had bestowed more than a thought upon the 
little wanderei as he went from house to house, 
and more than once they had conversed 
together about him. 

“Well, Bobby, how is trade in the book line?” 
asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had 
been cordially greeted. 

“Pretty fair,’’ replied Bobby, with as much 
indifference as he could command, though it 
was hard even to seem indifferent then and 
there. 

“Where have you been traveling?’’ 

“In B .’’ 

“Fine place. Books sell well there?’’ 

“Very well; in fact, I sold out all my stock 
by noon yesterday. ’ ’ 

“How many books did you carry?” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


113 


“Fifty.” 

“You did well.” 

‘ ‘I should think you did, ’ ’ added Annie, with 
an enthusiasm which quite upset all Bobby’s 
assumed indifference. ‘ ‘Fifty books ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, Miss Annie; and I have brought you 
a copy of the book I have been selling; I 
thought you would like to read it. It is a 
splendid work, and will be the book of the 
season.” 

“I shall be delighted to read it,” replied 
Annie, taking the proffered volume. “It 
looks real good,” she continued, as she turned 
over the leaves. 

“It is first rate; I have read it through.” 

“It was very kind of you to think of me 
when you have so much business on your 
mind, ’ ' added she, with a roguish smile. 

“I shall never have so much business on my 
mind that I cannot think of my friends,” re- 
plied Bobby, so gallantly and so smartly that 
it astonished himself. 

“I was just thinking what I should read 
next ; I am so glad you have come. ’ * 

“Never mind her, Bobby; all she wanted 
was the book, ’ ’ interposed Squire Lee, laugh- 
ing. 

“Now, pa.” 

“Then I shall bring her one very often. ” 

“You are too bad, pa,” said Annie, who, like 
most young ladies just entering their teens, 
resented any imputation upon the immaculate- 
ness of human love, or human friendship. 

“I have got a little money for you, Squire 

8 Now or Never 


114 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Lee,” continued Bobby, thinking it time the 
subject was changed. 

He took out his gilded memorandum book, 
whose elegant appearance rather startled the 
squire, and from its ‘‘treasury department” 
extracted the little roll of bills, representing an 
aggregate of ten dollars, which he had care- 
fully reserved for his creditor. 

‘‘Never mind that, Bobby,” replied the 
squire. ‘‘You will want all your capital to do 
business with.” 

‘‘I must pay my debts before I think of any- 
thing else.” 

“A very good plan, Bobby, but this is an ex- 
ception to the general rule. ’ ’ 

‘‘No, sir, I think not. If you please, I insist 
upon paying you ten dollars on my note. ’ ’ 

“O, well, if you insist, I suppose I can’t help 
myself. ’ ’ 

‘‘I would rather pay it, I shall feel so much 
better. ” 

‘‘You want to indorse it on the note, I sup- 
pose?” 

That was just what Bobby wanted. Indorsed 
on the note was the idea, and our hero had 
often passed that expression through his mind. 
There was something gratifying in the act to a 
man of business integrity like himself; it was 
discharging a sacred obligation, — he had al- 
ready come to deem it a sacred duty to pay 
one’s debts, — and as the squire wrote the in- 
dorsement across the back of the note, he felt 
more like a hero than ever before. 

“ ‘Pay as you go’ is an excellent idea; John 


NOW OR NEVER. 


115 


Randolph called it the philosopher’s stone,” 
added Squire Lee, as he returned the note to 
his pocketbook. 

“That is what I mean to do just as soon as 
I can.” 

“You will do, Bobby.” 

The young merchant spent nearly the whole 
forenoon at the squire’s, and declined an invi- 
tation to dinner only on the plea that his 
mother would wait for him. 


116 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IN WHICH BOBBY DECLINES A COPARTNERSHIP, 
AND VISITS B AGAIN. 

After dinner, Bobby performed his Saturday 
afternoon chores as usual. He split wood 
enough to last for a week, so that his mother 
might not miss him too much, and, then, feel- 
ing a desire to visit his favorite resorts in the 
vicinity, he concluded to go a-fishing. The 
day was favorable, the sky being overcast and 
the wind very light. After digging a little 
box of worms in the garden back of the house, 
he shouldered his fish pole ; and certainly no 
one would have suspected that he was a distin- 
guished traveling merchant. He was fond of 
fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that 
Daniel Webster, and many other famous men, 
have manifested a decided passion for this ex- 
citing sport. No doubt a fondness for angling 
is a peculiarity of genius ; and if being an ex- 
pert fisherman makes a great man, then our 
hero was a great man. 

He had scarcely seated himself on his favor- 
ite rock, and dropped his line into the water, 
before he saw Tom Spicer approaching the 
spot. The bully had never been a welcome 
companion. There was no sympathy between 


NOW OR NEVER. 


117 


them. They could never agree, for their views, 
opinions, and tastes were always conflicting. 

Bobby had not seen Tom since he left him to 
crawl out of the ditch on the preceding week, 
and he had good reason to believe that he 
should not be regarded with much favor. Tom 
was malicious and revengeful, and our hero 
was satisfied that the blow which had pros- 
trated him in the ditch would not be forgotten 
till it had been atoned for. He was prepared, 
therefore, for any disagreeable scene which 
might occur. 

There was another circumstance also which 
rendered the bully’s presence decidedly un- 
pleasant at this time — an event that had occur- 
red during his absence, the particulars of 
which he had received from his mother. 

Tom’s father, who was a poor man and ad- 
dicted to intemperance, had lost ten dollars. 
He had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, 
placed it in one of the bureau drawers. The 
next day it could not be found. Spicer, for 
some reason, was satisfied that Tom had taken 
it ; but the boy stoutly and persistently denied 
it. No money was found upon him, however, 
and it did not appear that he had spent any 
at the stores in Riverdale Center. 

The affair created some excitement in the 
vicinity, for Spicer made no secret of his sus- 
picions, and publicly accused Tom of the theft. 
He did not get much sympathy from any ex- 
cept his pot companions ; for there was no evi- 
dence but his bare and unsupported statement 
to substantiate the grave accusation. Tom 


118 


NOW OR NEVER. 


had been in the room when the money was 
placed in the drawer, and, as his father assert- 
ed, had watched him closely while he deposited 
the bills under the clothing. No one else 
could have taken it. These were the proofs. 
But people generally believed that Spicer had 
carried no money home, especially as it was 
known that he was intoxicated on the night in 
question; and that the alleged theft was only 
a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors. 

Everybody knew that Tom was bad enough 
to steal, even from his father ; from which my 
readers can understand that it is an excellent 
thing to have a good reputation. Bobby knew 
that he would lie and use profane language; 
that he spent his Sundays by the river, or in 
roaming through the woods ; and that he played 
truant from school as often as the fear of the 
rod would permit ; and the boy that would do 
all these things certainly would steal if he got 
a good chance. Our hero’s judgment, there- 
fore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, 
and he would have thanked him to stay away 
from the river while he was there. 

“Hallo, Bob! How are you?” shouted Tom, 
when he had come within hailing distance. 

“Very well,’" replied Bobby, rather coolly. 

“Been to Boston, they say.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, how did you like it?’’ continued Tom, 
as he seated himself on the rock near our 
hero. 

“First rate.” 

“Been to work there?” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


119 


“No.” 

“What have you been doing?” 

4 4 Traveling about. ’ ’ 

“What doing?” 

“Selling books. ” 

“Was you, though? Did you sell any?” 

“Yes, a few.” 

“How many?” 

44 O, about fifty.” 

“You didn’t though — did you? How much 
did you make?” 

“About fifteen dollars.” 

44 By jolly! You are a smart one, Bobby. 
There are not many fellows that would have 
done that. ” 

4 4 Easy enough,” replied Bobby, who was 
not a little surprised at this warm commenda- 
tion from one whom he regarded as his enemy. 

“You had to buy the books first — didn’t 
you?” asked Tom, who began to manifest a 
deep interest in the trade. 

“Of course ; no one will give you the books. * ’ 

“What do you pay for them?” 

4 4 1 buy them so as to make a profit on them, ’ ’ 
answered Bobby, who, like a discreet mer- 
chant, was not disposed to be too communica- 
tive. 

“That business would suit me first rate.” 

“It is pretty hard work.” 

44 1 don’t care for that. Don’t you believe I 
could do something in this line?” 

“I don’t know; perhaps you could.” 

“Why not, as well as you?” 

This was a hard question ; and, as Bobby did 


120 


NOW OR NEVER. 


not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big 
pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of 
answering it. He was politic, and deprecated 
the anger of the bully ; so, though Tom plied 
him pretty hard, he did not receive much sat- 
isfaction. 

“You see, Tom,” said he, when he found 
that his companion insisted upon knowing the 
cost of the books, “this is a publisher’s secret; 
and I dare say they would not wish every one 
to know the cost of books. We sell them for 
a dollar apiece. ’ ’ 

“Humph! You needn’t be so close about it. 
I’ll bet I can find out.” 

“I have no doubt you can; only you see I 
don’t want to tell what I am not sure they 
would be willing I should tell. ’ ’ 

Tom took a slate pencil from his pocket and 
commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon 
which he sat. 

“You say you sold fifty books?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well; if you made fifteen dollars out of 
fifty, that is thirty cents apiece.” 

Bobby was a little mortified when he per- 
ceived that he had unwittingly exposed the 
momentous secret. He had not given Tom 
credit for so much sagacity as he had displayed 
in his inquiries ; and as he had fairly reached 
his conclusion, he was willing he should have 
the benefit of it. 

“You sold them at a dollar apiece. Thirty 
from a hundred leaves seventy. They cost 
you seventy cents each — didn’t they?” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


121 


“Sixty-seven,” replied Bobby, yielding the 
point. 

“Enough said, Bob; I am going into that 
business, anyhow.” 

“I am willing. ” 

“Of course you are; suppose we go to- 
gether,” suggested Tom, who had not used all 
this conciliation without having a purpose in 
view. 

“We could do nothing together.” 

“I should like to go out with you just once, 
only to see how it is done. ” 

“You can find out for yourself, as I did.” 

“Don’t be mean, Bob.” 

“Mean? I am not mean.” 

“I don’t say you are. We have always been 
good friends, you know. ’ ’ 

Bobby did not know it ; so he looked at the 
other with a smile which expressed all he 
meant to say. 

“You hit me a smart dig the other day, I 
know; but I don’t mind that. I was in the 
wrong, then, and I am willing to own it, ’ ’ con- 
tinued Tom, with an appearance of humility. 

This was an immense concession for Tom to 
make, and Bobby was duly affected by it. 
Probably it was the first time the bully had 
ever owned he was in the wrong. 

“The fact is, Bob, I always liked you; and 
you know I licked Ben Dowse for you. ’ ’ 

“That was two for yourself and one for me ; 
besides, I didn’t want Ben thrashed.” 

“But he deserved it. Didn’t he tell the mas- 
ter you were whispering in school?” 


122 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“I was whispering; so he told the truth.” 
‘‘It was mean to blow on a fellow, though.” 
‘‘The master asked him if I whispered to 
him ; of course, he ought not to lie about it. 
But he told of you at the same time. ’ ’ 

“I know it; but I wouldn’t have licked him 
on my own account. ” 

‘‘Perhaps you wouldn't. ” 

*‘I know I wouldn’t. But, I say, Bobby, 
where do you buy your books?” 

‘‘At Mr. Bayard’s, in Washington Street.” 
‘‘He will sell them to me at the same price 
— won’t he?” 

‘‘I don’t know. ” 

‘‘When are you going again?” 

‘‘Monday. ” 

“Won’t you let me go with you, Bob?” 

“Let you? Of course you can go where you 
please ; it is none of my business. ’ ’ 

Bobby did not like the idea of having such a 
co-partner as Tom Spicer, and he did not like 
to tell him so. If he did, he would have to 
give his reasons for declining the proposition, 
and that would make Tom mad, and perhaps 
provoke him to quarrel. 

The fish bit well, and in an hour’s time 
Bobby had a mess. As he took his basket and 
walked home, the young ruffian followed him. 
He could not get rid of him till he reached the 
gate in front of the little black house; and 
even there Tom begged him to stop a few mo- 
ments. Our hero was in a hurry, and in the 
easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant 
for mercantile honors. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


123 


We have no doubt a journal of Bobby’s daily 
life would be very interesting to my 
young readers; but the fact that some of his 
most stirring adventures are yet to be related 
admonishes me to hasten forward more rap- 
idly. 

On Monday morning, Bobby bade adieu to 
his mother again, and started for Boston. He 
fully expected to encounter Tom on the way, 
who, he was afraid, would persist in accom- 
panying him on his tour. As before, he 
stopped at Squire Lee’s, to bid him and Annie 
good-by. 

The little maiden had read “The Way- 
farer’’ more than half through, and was very 
enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure 
she derived from it. She promised to send it 
over to his house when she had finished it, and 
hoped he would bring his stock to Riverdale, 
so that she might again replenish her library. 
Bobby thought of something just then, and 
the thought brought forth a harvest on the fol- 
lowing Saturday, when he returned. 

When he had shaken hands with the squire 
and was about to depart, he received a piece 
of news which gave him food for an hour’s 
serious reflection. 

“Did you hear about Tom Spicer?’’ asked 
Squire Lee. 

“No, sir; what about him?’’ 

“Broken his arm.’’ 

“Broken his arm! Gracious! How did it 
happen?’’ exclaimed Bobby, the more aston- 


124 


NOW OR NEVER. 


ished because he had been thinking of Tom 
since he had left home. 

“He was out in the woods yesterday, where 
boys should not be on Sundays, and, in climb- 
ing a tree after a bird’s nest, he fell to the 
ground. ’ ’ 

“I am sorry for him,” replied Bobby, mus- 
ing. 

‘ ‘ So am I ; but if he had been at home, or at 
church, where he should have been, it would 
not have happened. If I had any boys, I 
would lock them up in their chambers if I 
could not keep them at home Sundays.” 

“Poor Tom!” mused Bobby, recalling the 
conversation he had had with him on Satur- 
day, and then wishing that he had been a little 
more pliant with him. 

“It is too bad; but I must say I am more 
sorry for his poor mother than I am for him, ’ ’ 
added the squire. “However, I hope it will 
do him good, and be a lesson he will remem- 
ber as long as he lives.” 

Bobby bade the squire and Annie adieu 
again, and resumed his journey towards the 
railroad station. His thoughts were busy with 
Tom Spicer’s case. The reason why he had 
not joined him, as he expected and feared he 
would, was now apparent. He pitied him, for 
he realized that he must endure a great 
deal of pain before he could again go out ; but 
he finally dismissed the matter with the 
squire’s sage reflection, that he hoped the ca- 
lamity would be a good lesson to him. 

The young merchant did not walk to Boston 


NOW OR NEVER. 


125 


this time, for he had come to the conclusion 
that, in the six hours it would take him to 
travel to the city on foot, the profit on the 
books he could sell would be more than enough 
to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue 
and the expense of shoe leather. 

Before noon he was at B again, as busy 

as ever in driving his business. The experi- 
ence of the former week was of great value to 
him. He visited people belonging to all 
spheres in society, and, though he was occa- 
sionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he 
was not conscious in a single instance of 
offending any person’s sense of propriety. 

He was not as fortunate as during the pre- 
vious week, and it was Saturday noon before 
he had sold out the sixty books he carried with 
him. The net profit for this week was four- 
teen dollars, with which he was abundantly 
pleased. 

Mr. Bayard again commended him in the 
warmest terms for his zeal and promptness. 
Mr. Timmins was even more civil than the last 
time, and when Bobby asked the price of 
Moore’s Poems, he actually offered to sell it to 
him for thirty-three per cent, less than the re- 
tail price. The little merchant was on the 
point of purchasing it, when Mr. Bayard 
inquired what he wanted. 

“I am going to buy this book,” replied 
Bobby. 

“Moore’s Poems?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Mr. Bayard took from a glass case an ele- 


126 


NOW OR NEVER. 


gantly bound copy of the same work — morocco, 
full gilt — and handed it to our hero. 

‘ ‘I shall make you a present of this. Are 
you an admirer of Moore?” 

“No, sir; not exactly — that is, I don’t know 
much about it; but Annie Lee does, and I 
want to get the book for her. ’ ’ 

Bobby’s cheeks reddened as he turned the 
leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his 
head down to the page to hide his confusion. 

“Annie Lee?” said Mr. Bayard with a quiz- 
zing smile. “I see how it is. Rather young, 
Bobby. ” 

“Her father has been very good to me and to 
my mother; and so has Annie, for that matter. 
Squire Lee would be a great deal more pleased 
if I should make Annie a present than if I made 
him one. I feel grateful to him, and I want 
to let it out somehow.” 

“That’s right, Bobby; always remember 
your friends. Timmins, wrap up this book. ” 

Bobby protested with all his might ; but the 
bookseller insisted that he should give Annie 
this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to 
yield the point. 

That evening he was at the little black house 
again, and his mother examined his ledger with 
a great deal of pride and satisfaction. That 
evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed 
on the note, and Annie received that elegant 
copy of Moore’s Poems. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


127 


CHAPTER XIV. 

IN WHICH BOBBY’S AIR CASTLE IS UPSET, AND 
TOM SPICER TALKS TO THE WOODS. 

During the next four weeks Bobby visited 
various places in the vicinity of Boston ; and at 
the end of that time, he had paid the whole of 
the debt he owed Squire Lee. He had the 
note in his memorandum book, and the fact 
that he had achieved his first great purpose 
afforded him much satisfaction. Now he 
owed no man anything, and he felt as though 
he could hold up his head among the best 
people in the world. 

The little black house was paid for, and 
Bobby was proud that his own exertions had 
released his mother from her obligation to a 
hard creditor. Mr.* Hardhand could no longer 
insult or abuse her. 

The apparent results which Bobby had 
accomplished, however, were as nothing com- 
pared with the real results. He had developed 
those energies of character which were to 
make him, not only a great business man, but 
a useful member of society. Besides, there 
was a moral grandeur in his humble achieve- 
ments which was more worthy of consideration 
than the mere worldly success he had obtained. 


128 


NOW OR NEVER. 


Motives determine the character of deeds. 
That a boy of thirteen should display so much 
enterprise and energy was a great thing ; but 
that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish 
devotion to his mother was a vastly greater 
thing. Many great achievements are morally 
insignificant, while many of which the world 
never hears mark the true hero. 

Our hero was not satisfied with what he had 
done, and far from relinquishing his interest- 
ing and profitable employment, his ambition 
suggesting new and wider fields of success. 
As one ideal, brilliant and glorious in its time, 
was reached, another more brilliant and more 
glorious presented itself, and demanded to be 
achieved. The little black house began to 
appear rusty and inconvenient ; a coat of white 
paint would marvelously improve its appear- 
ance ; a set of nice Paris-green blinds would 
make a palace of it ; and a neat fence around 
it would positively transform the place into a 
paradise. Yet Bobby was audacious enough to 
think of these things, and even to promise him- 
self that they should be obtained. 

In conversation with Mr. Bayard a few days 
before, that gentleman had suggested a new 
field of labor ; and it had been arranged that 
Bobby should visit the State of Maine the fol- 
lowing week. On the banks of the Kennebec 
were many wealthy and important towns, where 
the intelligence of the people created a demand 
for books. This time the little merchant was 
to take two hundred books, and be absent until 
they were all sold. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


129 


On Monday morning he started bright and 
early for the railroad station. As usual, he 
called upon Squire Lee, and informed Annie 
that he should probably be absent three or four 
weeks. She hoped no accident would happen 
to him, and that his journey would be crowned 
with success. Without being sentimental, 
she was a little sad, for Bobby was a great 
friend of hers. That elegant copy of Moore’s 
Poems had been gratefully received, and she 
was so fond of the bard’s beautiful and touch- 
ing melodies, that she could never read any of 
them without thinking of the brave little fel- 
low who had given her the volume ; which no 
one will consider very remarkable, even in a 
little miss of twelve. 

After he had bidden her and her father 
adieu, he resumed his journey. Of course he 
was thinking with all his might ; but no one 
need suppose he was wondering how wide the 
Kennebec River was, or how many books he 
should sell in the towns upon its banks. 
Nothing of the kind; though it is enough even 
for the inquisitive to know that he was think- 
ing of something, and that his thoughts were 
very interesting, not to say romantic. 

“Hallo! Bob!’’ shouted some one from the 
road-side. 

Bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes 
very uncomfortable to have a pleasant train of 
thought interrupted. The imagination is 
buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals 
up to the stars sometimes. It was so with 
Bobby. He was building up some kind of an 

9 Now or Never 


130 


NOW OR NEVER. 


air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst 
the fog and moonshine, and that aggravating 
voice brought him down, slap, upon terra 
firma. 

He looked up and saw Tom Spicer seated 
upon the fence. In his hand he held a bundle, 
and had evidently been waiting some time for 
Bobby’s coming. 

He had recovered from the illness caused by 
his broken arm, and people said it had been a 
good lesson for him, as the squire hoped it 
would be. Bobby had called upon him two or 
three times during his confinement to the 
house ; and Tom, either truly repentant for his 
past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that 
time to manifest his evil propensities, had 
stoutly protested that he had “turned over a 
new leaf, ’ ’ and meant to keep out of the woods 
on Sunday, stop lying and swearing, and 
become a good boy. 

Bobby commended his good resolutions, and 
told him he would never want friends while he 
was true to himself. The right side, he 
declared, was always the best side. He quoted 
several instances of men, whose lives he had 
read in his Sunday school books, to show how 
happy a good man may be in prison, or when 
all the world seemed to forsake him. 

Tom assured him that he meant to reform 
and be a good boy ; and Bobby told him that 
when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, 
it was “now or never/’ If he put it off, he 
would only grow worse, and the longer the 
good work was delayed, the more difficult it 


NOW OR NEVER. 


131 


would be to do it. Tom agreed to all this, 
and was sure he had reformed. 

For these reasons Bobby had come to regard 
Tom with a feeling of deep interest. He con- 
sidered him as, in some measure, his disciple, 
and he felt a personal responsibility in encour- 
aging him to persevere in his good work. 
Nevertheless Bobby was not exactly pleased 
to have his fine air castle upset, and to be 
tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncom- 
promising earth again; so the first greeting he 
gave Tom was not as cordial as it might have 
been. 

“Hallo, Tom!” he replied, rather coolly. 

“Been waiting for you this half hour.” 

“Have you?” 

“Yes; ain’t you rather late?” 

“No; I have plenty of time, though none to 
spare,” answered Bobby; and this was a hint 
that he must not detain him too long. 

“Come along then.” 

“Where are you going, Tom?” asked Bobby, 
a little surprised at these words. 

“To Boston.” 

“Are you?” 

“I am; that’s a fact. You know I spoke to 
you about going into the book business. 

“Not lately. ” 

“But I have been thinking about it all the 
time. ” 

“What do your father and mother say?” 

“O, they are all right.” 

‘‘Have you asked them?” 


132 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Certainly I have; they are willing I should 
go with you. ” 

“Why didn’t you speak of it then?” 

“I thought I wouldn’t say anything till the 
time came. You know you fought shy when I 
spoke about it before. ’ ’ 

And Bobby, notwithstanding the interest he 
felt in his companion, was a little disposed to 
“fight shy” now. Tom had reformed, or had 
pretended to do so; but he was still a raw 
recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful 
that he would run at the first fire. 

To the good and true man lite is a constant 
battle. Temptation assails him at almost 
every point; perils and snares beset him at 
every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that 
every day he is called upon to gird on his 
armor and fight the good fight. 

Bobby was no poet ; but he had a good idea 
of this every-day strife with the foes of error 
and sin that crossed his path. It was a prac- 
tical conception, but it was truly expressed 
under the similitude of a battle. There was 
to be resistance, and he could comprehend 
that, for his bump of combativeness took cog- 
nizance of the suggestion. He was to fight; 
and that was an idea that stood him in better 
stead than a whole library of ethical subtilities. 

Judging Tom by his own standard, he was 
afraid he would run — that he wouldn’t “stand 
fire.” He had not been drilled. Heretofore, 
when temptation beset him, he had yielded 
without even a struggle, and fled from the field 
without firing a gun. To go out into the great 


NOW OR NEVER. 


133 


world was a trying event for the raw recruit. 
He lacked too, that prestige of success which 
is worth more than numbers on the field of 
battle. 

Tom had chosen for himself, and he could 
not send him back. He had taken up the line 
of march, let it lead him where it might. 

“March on! in legions death and sin. 

Impatient wait thy conquering hand; 

The foe without, the foe within — 

Thy youthful arm must both withstand.” 

Bobby had great hopes of him. He felt 
that he could not well get rid of him, and he 
saw that it was policy for him to make the 
best of it. 

“Well, Tom, where are you going?” asked 
Bobby, after he had made up his mind not to 
object to the companionship of the other. 

“I don’t know. You have been a good 
friend to me lately, and I had an idea that 
you would give me a lift in this business.” 

“I should be very willing to do so; but what 
can I do for vou?” 

“Just show me how the business is done; 
that’s all I want. ” 

“Your father and mother were willing }^ou 
should come — were they not?” 

Bobby had some doubts about this point, 
and with good reason too. He had called at 
Tom’s house, the day before, and they had 
gone to church together; but neither he nor 
his parents had said a word about his going to 
Boston. 


134 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“When did they agree to it?” 

“Last night,” replied Tom, after a moment’s 
hesitation. 

“All right then; but I cannot promise you 
that Mr. Bayard will let you have the 
books.” 

“I can fix that, I reckon,” replied Tom, 
confidently. 

“I will speak a good word for you, at any 
rate. ’ ’ 

“That’s right, Bob.” 

“I am going down into the State of Maine 
this time, and shall be gone three or four 
weeks. ” 

“So much the better; I always wanted to 
go down that way. ’ ’ 

Tom asked a great many questions about 
the business and the method of traveling, 
which Bobby’s superior intelligence and more 
extensive experience enabled him to answer to 
the entire satisfaction of the other. 

When they were within half a mile of the 
railroad station, they heard a carriage driven 
at a rapid rate approaching them from the 
direction of Riverdale. 

Tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent 
glances behind him. In a moment the vehicle 
was within a short distance of them, and he 
stopped short in the road to scrutinize the per- 
sons in it. 

“By jolly!” exclaimed Tom; “my father!” 

“What of it?” asked Bobby, surprised by the 
strange behavior of his companion. 

Tom did not wait to reply, but springing 


NOW OR NEVER. 


135 


over the fence, fled like a deer towards some 
woods a short distance from the road. 

Was it possible? Tom had run away from 
home. His father had not consented to his 
going to Boston, and Bobby was mortified to 
find that his hopeful disciple had been lying to 
him ever since they left Riverdale. But he 
was glad the cheat had been exposed. 

“That was Tom with you — wasn’t it?” asked 
Mr. Spicer, as he stopped the foaming horse. 

“Yes, sir; but he told me you had consented 
that he should go with me,” replied Bobby, a 
little disturbed by the angry glance of Mr. 
Spicer’s fiery eyes. 

“He lied! the young villain! He will catch 
it for this.” 

“I would not have let him come with me 
only for that. I asked him twice over if you 
were willing, and he said you were.” 

“You ought to have known better than to 
believe him,” interposed the man who was 
with Mr. Spicer. 

Bobby had some reason for believing him. 
The fact that Tom had reformed ought to have 
entitled him to some consideration, and our 
hero gave him the full benefit of the declara- 
tion. To have explained this would have taken 
more time than he could spare; besides, it 
was “a great moral question, ” whose import- 
ance Mr. Spicer and his companion would not 
be likely to apprehend ; so he made a short 
story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful 
that he had got rid of Tom. 

Mr. Spicer and his friend, after fastening 


136 


NOW OR NEVER. 


the horse to the fence, went to the woods in 
search of Tom. 

Bobby reached the station just in time to 
take the cars, and in a moment was on his way 
to the city. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


137 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN WHICH BOBBY GETS INTO A SCRAPE, AND TOM 
SPICER TURNS UP AGAIN. 

Bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature 
than ever before. It seemed almost incred- 
ible to him that words so fairly spoken as those 
of Tom Spicer could be false. He had just 
risen from a sick bed, where he had had an 
opportunity for long and serious reflection. 
Tom had promised fairly, and Bobby had every 
reason to suppose he intended to be a good 
boy. But his promises had been lies. He had 
never intended to reform, at least not since he 
had got off his bed of pain. He was mortified 
and disheartened at the failure of this attempt 
to restore him to himself. 

Like a great many older and wiser persons 
than himself, he was prone to judge the whole 
human family by a single individual. He did 
not come to believe that every man was a ras- 
cal, but in more general terms, that there is a 
great deal more rascality in this world than 
one would be willing to believe. 

With this sage reflection, he dismissed Tom 
from his mind, which very naturally turned 
again to the air castle which had been so ruth- 
lessly upset. Then his opinion of “ the rest of 


138 


NOW OR NEVER. 


mankind” was reversed; and he reflected that 
if the world were only peopled by angels like 
Annie Lee, what a pleasant place it would be 
to live in. She could not tell a lie, she could 
not use bad language, she could not steal, or do 
anything else that was bad ; and the prospect 
was decidedly pleasant. It was very agreeable 
to turn from Tom to Annie, and in a moment 
his air castle was built again, and throned on 
clouds of gold and purple. I do not know 
what impossible things he imagined, or how 
far up in the clouds he would have gone, if the 
arrival of the train at the city had not inter- 
rupted his thoughts, and pitched him down 
upon the earth again. 

Bobby was not one of that impracticable 
class of persons who do nothing but dream ; for 
he felt that he had a mission to perform which 
dreaming could not accomplish. However 
pleasant it may be to think of the great and 
brilliant things which one will do, to one of 
Bobby’s practical character it was even more 
pleasant to perform them. We all dream 
great things, imagine great things ; but he who 
stops there does not amount to much, and the 
world can well spare . him, for he is nothing 
but a drone in the hive. Bobby’s fine imagin- 
ings were pretty sure to bring out a “now or 
never,” which was the pledge of action, and 
the work was as good as done when he had 
said it. 

Therefore, when the train arrived, Bobby 
did not stop to dream any longer. He forgot 
his beautiful air castle, and even let Annie 


NOW OR NEVER. 


139 


Lee slip from his mind for the time being. 
Those towns upon the Kennebec, the two hun- 
dred books he was to sell, loomed up before 
him, for it was with them he had to do. 

Grasping the little valise he carried with 
him, he was hastening out of the station house 
when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. 

“Got off slick — didn’t I?” said Tom Spicer, 
placing himself by Bobby’s side. 

“You here, Tom!” exclaimed our hero, gaz- 
ing with astonishment at his late compan- 
ion. 

It was not an agreeable encounter, and from 
the bottom of his heart Bobby wished him any- 
where but where he was. He foresaw that he 
could not easily get rid of him. 

“I am here,’" replied Tom. “I ran through 
the woods to the depot, and got aboard the 
cars just as they were starting. The old man 
couldn’t come it over me quite so slick as 
that. ’’ 

“But you ran away from home.” 

“Well, what of it?” 

“A good deal, I should say.” 

“If you had been in my place, you would 
have done the same.’’ 

“I don’t know about that; obedience to par- 
ents is one of our first duties.’’ 

“I know that; and if I had had any sort of 
fair play, I wouldn’t have run away.’’ 

“What do you mean by that?’’ asked Bobby, 
somewhat surprised, though he had a faint idea 
of the meaning of the other. 

“I will tell you all about it by-and-by. I 


140 


NOW OR NEVER. 


give you my word and honor that I will make 
everything satisfactory to you.” 

“But you lied to me on the road this morn- 
ing.” 

Tom winced; under ordinary circumstances 
he would have resented such a remark by 
“clearing away” for fight. But he had a pur- 
pose to accomplish, and he knew the character 
of him with whom he had to deal. 

“I am sorry I did, now,” answered Tom, 
with every manifestation of penitence for his 
fault. “I didn’t want to lie to you; and it 
went against my conscience to do so. But I 
was afraid, if I told you my father refused, up 
and down, to let me go, that you wouldn’t be 
willing I should come with you. ' ’ 

‘ ‘I shall not be any more willing now I know 
all about it, ’ ’ added Bobby, in an uncompro- 
mising tone. 

“Wait till you have heard my story, and 
then you won’t blame me.” 

“Of course, you can go where you please; it 
is none of my business; but let me tell you, 
Tom, in the beginning, that I won’t go with a 
fellow who has run away from his father and 
mother. ’ * 

“Pooh! What’s the use of talking in that 
way?” 

Tom was evidently disconcerted by this de- 
cided stand of his companion. He knew that 
his bump of firmness was well developed, and 
whatever he said he meant. 

“You had better return home, Tom. Boys 
that run away from home don’t often amount 


NOW OR NEVER. 


141 


to much. Take my advice, and go home,” 
added Bobby. 

“To such a home as mine!” said Tom, 
gloomily. “If I had such a home as yours, I 
would not have left it.” 

Bobby got a further idea from this remark 
of the true state of the case, and the considera- 
tion moved him. Tom’s father was a notori- 
ously intemperate man, and the boy had noth- 
ing to hope for from his precept or his exam- 
ple. He was the child of a drunkard, and as 
much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. His 
home was not pleasant. He who presided over 
it, and who should have made a paradise of it, 
t was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, 
who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed. 

Tom had seemed truly penitent both during 
his illness and since his recovery. His one 
great desire now was to get away from home, 
for home to him was a place of torment. 
Bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart 
he pitied his companion. He did not know 
what to do. 

“I am sorry for you, Tom,” said he, after 
he had considered the matter in this new light; 
“but I don’t see what I can do for you. I 
doubt whether it would be right for me to help 
you run away from your parents. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want you to help me run away. 
I have done that already. ’ ’ 

“But, if I let you go with me, it will be just 
the same thing. Besides, since you told me 
those lies this morning, I haven’t much confi- 
dence in you. ’ ’ 


142 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“I couldn’t help that” 

“Yes, you could. Couldn’t help lying?” 

“What could I do? You would have gone 
right back and told my father. ’ ’ 

“Well, we will go up to Mr. Bayard’s store, 
and then we will see what can be done.” 

“I couldn’t stay at home, sure,” continued 
Tom, as they walked along together. “My 
father even talking of binding me out to a 
trade. ’ ’ 

“Did he?” 

Bobby stopped short in the street ; for it was 
evident that, as this would remove him from 
his unhappy home, and thus effect all he pro- 
fessed to desire, he had some other purpose in 
view. 

“What are you stopping for, Bob?” 

“I think you better go back, Tom.” 

“Not I; I won’t do that, whatever happens.” 

“If your father will put you to a trade, what 
more do you want?” 

“I won’t go to a trade, anyhow. ” 

Bobby said no more, but determined to con- 
sult with Mr. Bayard about the matter; and 
Tom was soon too busily engaged in observing 
the strange sights and sounds of the city to 
think of anything else. 

When they reached the store, Bobby went 
into Mr. Bayard’s private office, and told him 
all about the affair. The bookseller decided 
that Tom had run away more to avoid being 
bound to a trade than because his home was 
unpleasant ; and this decision seemed to Bobby 
all the more just because he knew that Tom’s 


NOW OR NEVER. 


143 


mother, though a drunkard’s wife, was a very 
good woman. Mr. Bayard further decided that 
Bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be 
the companion of his journey. He also consid- 
ered it his duty to write to Mr. Spicer, inform- 
ing him of his son’s arrival in the city, and 
clearing Bobby from any agency in his es- 
cape. 

While Mr. Bayard was writing the letter, 
Bobby went out to give Tom the result of the 
consultation. The runaway received it with a 
great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded 
to have the decision reversed. But Bobby, 
though he would gladly have done anything 
for him which was consistent with his duty, 
was firm as a rock, and positively refused to 
have anything to do with him until he obtained 
his father’s consent; or, if there was any such 
trouble as he asserted, his mother’s consent. 

Tom left the store, apparently, “more in sor- 
row than in anger.’’ His bullying nature 
seemed to be cast out, and Bobby could not 
but feel sorry for him. Duty was imperative, 
as it always is, and it must be done ‘ ‘now or 
never. ’’ 

During the day the little merchant attended 
to the packing of his stock, and to such other 
preparations as were required for his journey. 
He must take the steamer that evening for 
Bath, and when the time for his departure ar- 
rived, he was attended to the wharf by Mr. 
Bayard and Ellen, with whom he had passed 
the afternoon. The bookseller assisted him in 
procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him 


144 


NOW OR NEVER. 


such instructions as his inexperience de- 
manded. 

The last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, 
and the great wheels of the steamer began to 
turn. Our hero, who had never been on the 
water in a steamboat, or, indeed, anything big- 
ger than a punt on the river at home, was 
much interested and excited by his novel posi- 
tion. He seated himself on the promenade 
deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, 
surging waters astern of the steamer. 

How powerful is man, the author of that 
mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over 
the deep blue waters! Bobby was a little 
philosopher, as we have before had occasion to 
remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion 
that the steamboat was a great institution. 
When he had in some measure conquered his 
amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity 
which the steamer and the sea were calculated 
to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked 
forward to take a closer survey of the machin- 
ery. After all, there was something rather 
comical in the affair. The steam hissed and 
sputtered, and the great walking beam kept 
flying up and down; and the sum total of 
Bobby’s philosophy was, that it was funny 
these things should make the boat go so like 
a race horse over the water. 

Then he took a look into the pilot house, 
and it seemed more funny that turning the big 
wheel should steer the boat. But the wind 
blew rather fresh at the forward part of the 
boat, and as Bobby’s philosophy was not proof 



“‘Buy the Wayfarer,’ said Bobby.” — Page 155. 

Now or Never. 








NOW OR NEVER. 


145 


against it, he returned to the promenade deck, 
which was sheltered from the severity of the 
blast. He had got reconciled to the whole 
thing, and ceased to bother his head about the 
big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walk- 
ing beam ; so he seated himself, and began to 
wonder what all the people in Riverdale were 
about. 

“All them as hasn’t paid their fare, please 
walk up to the cap’n’s office and s-e-t-t-l-e !’’ 
shouted a colored boy, presenting himself just 
then, and furiously ringing a large hand 
bell. 

“I have just settled,” said Bobby, alluding 
to his comfortable seat. 

But the allusion was so indefinite to the 
colored boy that he thought himself insulted. 
He did not appear to be a very amiable boy, 
for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry 
big oaths, he threatened to annihilate the little 
merchant for his insolence. 

“I didn’t say anything that need offend 
you,” replied Bobby. “I meant nothing.” 

“You lie! You did!” 

He was on the point of administering a blow 
with his fist, when a third party appeared on 
the ground, and without waiting to hear the 
merits of the case, struck the negro a blow 
which had nearly floored him. 

Some of the passengers now interfered, and 
the colored boy was prevented from executing 
vengeance on the assailant. 

“Strike that fellow and you strike me!” 
said he who had struck the blow. 

10 Now or Never 


146 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Tom Spicer!” exclaimed Bobby, astonished 
and chagrined at the presence of the run- 
away. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


147 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IN WHICH BOBBY FINDS “iT IS AN ILL WIND THAT 
BLOWS NO ONE ANY GOOD.” 

A gentleman who was sitting near Bobby 
when he made the remark which the colored 
boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him 
from blame, and probably all unpleasant feel- 
ings might have been saved, if Tom’s zeal had 
been properly directed. As it was, the waiter 
retired with his bell, vowing vengeance upon 
his assailant. 

‘‘How came you here, Tom?” asked Bobby, 
when the excitement had subsided. 

“You don’t get rid of me so easily,” 
replied Tom, laughing. 

Bobby called to mind the old adage that “a 
bad penny is sure to return;” and if it had not 
been a very uncivil remark, he would have 
said it. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again at present,” 
he observed, hardly knowing what to say 
or do. 

“I suppose not; but as I didn’t mean you 
should expect me, I kept out of sight. Only 
for that darkey, you wouldn’t have found me 
out so soon. I like you, Bob, in spite of all 


148 


NOW OR NEVER. 


you have done to get rid of me, and I wasn’t 
a going to let the darkey thrash you. ’ * 

“You only made matters worse.” 

“That is all the thanks I get for hitting him 
for you. ’ ’ 

“I am sorry you hit him; at the same time 
I suppose you meant to do me a service, and 
I thank you, not for the blow you struck the 
black boy, but for your good intentions. ’ ’ 

“That sounds better. I meant well, 
Bob.” 

“I dare say you did. But how came you 
here?” 

“Why, you see, I was bound to go with you 
anyhow, or at least to keep within hail of you. 
You told me, you know, that you were going in 
the steamboat; and after I left the shop, what 
should I see but a big picture of a steamboat 
on a wall. It said, ‘Bath, Gardiner, and 
Hallowell, ’ on the bill ; and I knew that was 
where you meant to go. So this afternoon I 
hunts round and finds the steamboat. I 
thought I never should have found it; but 
here I am. ’ ’ 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Going into the book business,” replied 
Tom, with a smile. 

“Where are your books?” 

“Down-stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, 
or whatever you call it. ’ ’ 

“Where did you get them?” 

“Bought ’em, of course.” 

“Did you? Where?” 

“Well, I don’t remember the name of the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


149 


street now. I could go right there if I was in 
the city, though.” 

“Would they trust you?” 

Tom hesitated. The lies he had told that 
morning had done him no good — had rather 
injured his cause ; and, though he had no prin- 
ciple that forbade lying, he questioned its 
policy in the present instance. 

“I paid part down, and they trusted me 
part.” 

“How many books you got?” 

“Twenty dollars worth. I paid eight dollars 
down. ’ ’ 

“You did? Where did you get the eight 
dollars?” 

Bobby remembered the money Tom’s father 
had lost several weeks before, and imme- 
diately connected that circumstance with his 
present ability to pay so large a sum. 

Tom hesitated again, but he was never at a 
loss for an answer. 

“My mother gave it to me.” 

“Your mother?” 

“Yes, sir!” replied Tom, boldly, and in that 
peculiarly bluff manner which is almost 
always good evidence that the boy is lying. 

“But you ran away from home.” 

“That’s so; but my mother knew I was 
coming. ’ ’ 

“Did she?” 

“To be sure she did.” 

“You didn’t say so before.” 

“I can’t tell all I know in a minute.” 


150 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“If I thought your mother consented to your 
coming, I wouldn’t say another word.” 

“Well, she did; you may bet your life on 
that. ’ ’ 

“And your mother gave you ten dollars?” 

“Who said she gave me ten dollars?” asked 
Tom, a little sharply. 

That was just the sum his father had lost, 
and Bobby had unwittingly hinted his 
suspicion. 

“You must have had as much as that if you 
paid eight on your books. Your fare to Boston 
and your steamboat fare must be two dollars 
more. * ’ 

“I know that; but look here, Bob;” and 
Tom took from his pocket five half dollars and 
exhibited them to his companion. “She gave 
me thirteen dollars. ’ ’ 

Notwithstanding this argument, Bobby felt 
almost sure that the lost ten dollars was a part 
of his capital. 

“I will tell you my story now, Bob, if you 
like. You condemned me without a hearing, 
as Jim Guthrie said when they sent him to the 
House of Correction for getting drunk.” 

“Go ahead. ” 

The substance of Tom’s story was, that his 
father drank so hard, and was such a tyrant in 
the house, that he could endure it no longer. 
His father and mother did not agree, as any 
one might have suspected. His mother, 
encouraged by the success of Bobby, thought 
that Tom might do something of the kind, 


NOW OR NEVER. 


151 


and she had provided him the money to buy 
his stock of books. 

Bobby had not much confidence in this 
story. He had been deceived once; besides, 
it was not consistent with his previous nar- 
rative, and he had not before hinted that he 
had obtained his mother’s consent. But Tom 
was eloquent, and protested that he had 
reformed, and meant to do well. He declared, 
by all that was good and great, Bobby should 
never have reason to be ashamed of him. 

Our little merchant was troubled. He could 
not now get rid of Tom without actually quar- 
reling with him, or running away from him. He 
did not wish to do the former, and it was not an 
easy matter to do the latter. Besides, there 
was hope that the runaway would do well; 
and if he did, when he carried the profits of 
his trade home, his father would forgive him. 
One thing was certain; if he returned to 
Riverdale he would be what he had been 
before. 

For these reasons Bobby finally, but very 
reluctantly, consented that Tom should remain 
with him, resolving, however, that, if he did 
not behave himself, he would leave him at 
once. 

Before morning he had another reason. 
When the steamer got out into the open bay, 
Bobby was seasick. He retired to his berth 
with a dreadful headache; as he described it 
afterwards, it seemed just as though that 
great walking beam was smashing up and 
down right in the midst of his brains. He had 


152 


NOW OR NEVER. 


never felt so sick before in his life, and was 
very sure, in his inexperience, that something 
worse than mere seasickness ailed him. 

He told Tom, who was not in the least 
affected, how he felt; whereupon the runaway 
blustered round, got the steward and the 
captain into the cabin, and was very sure that 
Bobby would die before morning if we may 
judge by the fuss he made. 

The captain was angry at being called from 
the pilot house for nothing, and threatened to 
throw Tom overboard if he didn’t stop his 
noise. The steward, however, was a kind- 
hearted man, and assured Bobby that pas- 
sengers were often a great deal sicker than he 
was; but he promised to do something for his 
relief, and Tom went with him to his state- 
room for the desired remedy. 

The potion was nothing more nor less than 
a tablespoonful of brandy, which Bobby, who 
had conscientious scruples about drinking 
ardent spirits, at first refused to take. Then 
Tom argued the point, and the sick boy 
yielded. The dose made him sicker yet, and 
nature came to his relief, and in a little while 
he felt better. 

Tom behaved like a good nurse ; he stayed 
by his friend till he went to sleep, and then 
“turned in” upon a settee beneath his berth. 
The boat pitched and tumbled about so in the 
heavy sea that Bobby did not sleep long, and 
when he woke he found Tom ready to assist 
him. But our hero felt better, and entreated 
Tom to go to sleep again. He made the best of 


NOW OR NEVER. 


153 


his unpleasant situation. Sleep was not to be 
wooed, and he tried to pass away the dreary 
hours in thinking of Riverdale and the dear 
ones there. His mother was asleep, and An- 
nie was asleep ; and that was about all the ex- 
citement he could get up even on the home 
question. He could not build castles in the 
air, for seasickness and castle building do 
not agree. The gold and purple clouds would 
be black in spite of him, and the aerial struc- 
ture he essayed to build would pitch and tum- 
ble about, for all the world, just like a steam- 
boat in a heavy sea. As often as he got fairly 
into it, he was violently rolled out, and in a 
twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, 
awfully seasick. 

He went to sleep again at last, and the long 
night passed away. When he woke in the 
morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thank- 
ful that he had got out of that scrape. But be- 
fore he could dress himself, he heard a terrible 
racket on deck. The steam whistle was shriek- 
ing, the bell was banging, and he heard the 
hoarse bellowing of the captain. It was cer- 
tain that something had happened, or was 
about to happen, 

Then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in 
the sea. Tom was not there ; he had gone on 
deck. Bobby was beginning to consider what 
a dreadful thing a wreck was, when Tom ap- 
peared. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Bobby, with 
some appearance of alarm. 


154 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Fog,” replied Tom. “It is so thick you 
can cut it with a hatchet * ’ 

“Is that all?” 

“That’s enough.” 

“Where are we?” 

“That is just what the pilot would like to 
know. They can’t see ahead a bit, and don’t 
know where we are. ’ ’ 

Bobfcy went on deck. The ocean rolled be- 
neath them, but there was nothing but fog to 
be seen above and around them. The lead 
was heaved every few moments, and the 
steamer crept slowly along till it was found 
the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain 
ordered the men to let go the anchor. 

There they were ; the fog was as obstinate as 
a mule, and would not “lift.” Hour after 
hour they waited, for the captain was a pru- 
dent man, and would not risk the life of those 
on board to save a few hours’ time. After 
breakfast, the passengers began to display 
their uneasiness, and some of them called the 
captain very hard names, because he would not 
go on. Almost everybody grumbled, and made 
themselves miserable. 

“Nothing to do and nothing to read,” 
growled a nicely-dressed gentleman, as he 
yawned and stretched himself to manifest his 
sensation of ennui. 

“Nothing to read, eh?” thought Bobby. 
“We will soon supply that want.” 

Calling Tom, they went down to the main 
deck, where the baggage had been placed. 

“Now’s our time,” said he, as he proceeded 


NOW OR NEVER. 


155 


to unlock one of the trunks that contained his 
books. “Now or never.” 

“I am with you,” replied Tom catching the 
idea. 

The books of the latter were in a box, and 
he was obliged to get a hammer to open it ; 
but with Bobby’s assistance he soon got at 
them. 

“Buy ‘The Wayfarer,’ ” said Bobby, when 
he returned to the saloon, and placed a vol- 
ume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. 
“Best book of the season; only one dollar.” 

“That I will, and glad of the chance,” re- 
plied the gentleman. “I would give five dol- 
lars for anything, if it were only the ‘Comic 
Almanac. ’ ” 

Others were of the same mind. There was 
no present prospect that the fog would lift, and 
before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty 
copies of “The Wayfarer.” Tom, whose 
books were of an inferior description, and who 
was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of 
twenty, which was more than half of his stock. 
The fog was a godsend to both of them, and 
they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, 
for almost all the passengers seemed willing to 
spend their money freely for the means of oc- 
cupying the heavy hours, and driving away 
that dreadful ennui which reigns supreme in a 
fog-bound steamer. 

About the middle of the afternoon, the fog 
blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voy- 
age, and before sunset our young merchants 
were safely landed at Bath. 


156 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

IN WHICH TOM HAS A GOOD TIME, AND BOBBY 
MEETS WITH A TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE. 

Bath afforded our young merchants an excel- 
lent market for their wares, and they remained 
there the rest of the week. They then pro- 
ceeded to Brunswick, where their success was 
equally flattering. 

Thus far Tom had done very well, though 
Bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of 
the pledges he had given to conduct himself in 
a proper manner. He would swear now and 
then, from the force of habit ; but invariably, 
when Bobby checked him, he promised to do 
better. 

At Brunswick, Tom sold the last of his 
books, and was in possession of about thirty 
dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher 
who had furnished his stock. This money 
seemed to burn in his pocket. He had the 
means of having a good time, and it went hard 
with him to plod along as Bobby did, careful 
to save every penny he could. 

“Come, Bob, let’s get a horse and chaise and 
have a ride — what do you say?” proposed Tom, 
on the day he finished selling his books. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


157 


“I can’t spare the time or the money,” re- 
plied Bobby, decidedly. 

“What is the use of having money if we 
can’t spend it? It is a first-rate day, and we 
should have a good time. ’ ’ 

“I can’t afford it. I have a great many books 
to sell.” 

“About a hundred; you can sell them fast 
enough. ’ ’ 

“I don’t spend my money foolishly.” 

“It wouldn’t be foolishly. I have sold out, 
and I am bound to have a little fun now.” 

“You never will succeed if you do business 
in that way. ” 

“Why not?” 

“You will spend your money as fast as you 
get it.” 

“Pooh ! we can get a horse and chaise for the 
afternoon for two dollars. That is not much. ’ ’ 

“Considerable, I should say. But if you be- 
gin, there is no knowing where to leave off. 
I make it a rule not to spend a single cent fool- 
ishly, and if I don’t begin, I shall never do it. ” 

“I don’t mean to spend all I get; only a lit- 
tle now and then,” persisted Tom. 

“Don’t spend the first dollar for nonsense, 
and then you won’t spend the second. Besides, 
when I have any money to spare, I mean to 
buy books with it for my library. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘Humbug ! Y our library ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, my library; I mean to have a library 
one of these days. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want any library, and I mean to 
spend some of my money in having a good 


158 


NOW OR NEVER. 


time; and if you won’t go with me, I shall go 
alone — that’s all.” 

“You can do as you please, of course; but I 
advise you to keep your money. You will 
want it to buy another stock of books. 

“I shall have enough for that. What do you 
say? will you go with me or not?” 

“No, I will not. ” 

“Enough said; then I shall go alone, or get 
some fellow to go with me.” 

“Consider well before you go,” pleaded 
Bobby, who had sense enough to see that 
Tom’s proposed “good time” would put back, 
if not entirely prevent, the reform he was 
working out. 

He then proceeded to reason with him in a 
very earnest and feeling manner, telling him 
he would not only spend all his money, but 
completely unfit himself for business. What 
he proposed to do was nothing more nor less 
than extravagance, and it would lead him to 
dissipation and ruin. 

“To-day I am going to send one hundred 
dollars to Mr. Bayard,” continued Bobby; “for 
I am afraid to have so much money with me. 
I advise you to send your money to your em- 
ployer. ’ ’ 

“Humph! Catch me doing that! I am 
bound to have a good time, anyhow. ’ ’ 

“At least, send the money you owe him.” 

“I’ll bet I won’t.” 

“Well, do as you please; I have said all I 
have to say. ” 

“You are a fool, Bob!” exclaimed Tom, who 


NOW OR NEVER. 


159 


had evidently used Bobby as much as he 
wished, and no longer cared to speak soft 
words to him. 

“Perhaps I am; but I know better than to 
spend my money upon fast horses. If you will 
go, I can’t help it. I am sorry you are going 
astray. ’ ’ 

“What do you mean by that, you young 
monkey?” said Tom, angrily. 

This was Tom Spicer, the bully. It sounded 
like him ; and with a feeling of sorrow, Bobby 
resigned the hopes he had cherished of making 
a good boy of him. 

“We had better part now,” added our hero, 
sadly. 

“I’m willing.” 

“I shall leave Brunswick this afternoon for 
the towns up the river. I hope no harm will 
befall you. Good-by, Tom. ” 

“Go it! I have heard your preaching about 
long enough, and I am more glad to get rid of 
you than you are to get rid of me. ’ ’ 

Bobby walked away towards the house where 
he had left the trunk containing his books, 
while Tom made his way towards a livery sta- 
ble. The boys had been in the place for sev- 
eral days, and had made some acquaintances; 
so Tom had no difficulty in procuring a com- 
panion for his proposed ride. 

Our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to Mr. 
Bayard, in which he narrated all the particu- 
lars of his journey, his relations with Tom 
Spicer, and the success that had attended his 
labors. At the bank he procured a hundred- 


160 


NOW OR NEVER. 


dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it 
in the letter. 

He felt sad about Tom. The runaway had 
done so well, had been so industrious, and 
shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been 
very much encouraged about him. But if he 
meant to be wild again, — for it was plain that 
the ride was only “the beginning of sorrows,’ * 
— it was well that they should part. 

By the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to 
Gardiner, passing through several smaller 
towns, which did not promise a very abundant 
harvest. His usual success attended him ; for 
wherever he went, people seemed to be 
pleased with him, as Squire Lee had declared 
they would be. His pleasant, honest face was 
a capital recommendation, and his eloquence 
seldom failed to achieve the result which elo- 
quence has ever achieved from Demosthenes 
down to the present day. 

Our limits do not permit us to follow him in 
all his peregrinations from town to town, and 
from house to house ; so we pass over the next 
fortnight, at the end of which time we find 
him at Augusta. He had sold all his books 
but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty 
dollars more to Mr. Bayard. It was Wednes- 
day, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able 
to take the next steamer for Boston, which was 
advertised to sail on the following day. 

He had heard nothing from Tom since their 
parting, and had given up all expectation of 
meeting him again ; but that bad penny maxim 
proved true once more, for, as he was walking 


NOW OR NEVER. 


161 


through one of the streets of Augusta, he had 
the misfortune to meet him — and this time it 
was indeed a misfortune. 

“Hallo, Bobby!” shouted the runaway, as 
familiarly as though nothing had happened to 
disturb the harmony of their relations. 

“Ah, Tom, I didn’t expect to see you again,” 
replied Bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet 
his late companion. 

“I suppose not; but here I am, as good as 
new. Have you sold out?” 

“No, not quite.” 

“How many have you left?” 

“About twenty; but I thought, Tom, you 
would have returned to Boston before this 
time. ” 

“No;” and Tom did not seem to be in very 
good spirits. 

“Where are you going now?” 

“I don’t know. I ought to have taken your 
advice, Bobby.” 

This was a concession, and our hero began 
to feel some sympathy for his companion — as 
who does not when the erring confess their 
faults? 

“I am sorry you did not ” 

“I got in with some pretty hard fellows down 
thereto Brunswick,” continued Tom, rather 
sheepishly. 

“And spent all your money,” added Bobby, 
who could readily understand the reason why 
Tom had put on his humility again. 

“Not all.” 

‘‘How much have you left?” 

11 Now or Ner«r 


162 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Not much,” replied he, evasively. “I don’t 
know what I shall do. I am in a strange place, 
and have no friends.” 

Bobby’s sympathies were aroused, and with- 
out reflection, he promised to be a friend in his 
extremity. 

“I will stick by you this time, Bob, come 
what will. I will do just as you say, now.’’ 

Our merchant was a little flattered by this 
unreserved display of confidence. He did not 
give weight enough to the fact that it was ad- 
versity alone which made Tom so humble. He 
was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee 
he could ask for his future good behavior. He 
could not desert him now he was in difficulty. 

“You shall help me sell my books, and then 
we will return to Boston together. Have you 
money enough left to pay your employer?” 

Tom hesitated ; something evidently hung 
heavily upon his mind. 

“I don’t know how it will be after I have 
paid my expenses to Boston,” he replied, 
averting this face. 

Bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; 
but as Tom seemed so reluctant to go into de- 
tails, he reserved his inquiries for a more con- 
venient season. 

“Nov;, Tom, you take the houses on that 
side of the street, and I will take those upon 
this side. You shall have the profits on all 
you sell.” 

“You are a first-rate fellow, Bob; and I only 
wish I had done as you wanted me to do.” 

“Can’t be helped now, and we will do the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


163 


next best thing,” replied Bobby, as he left his 
companion to enter a house. 

Tom did very well, and by the middle of the 
afternoon they had sold all the books but four. 
“The Wayfarer” had been liberally advertised 
in that vicinity, and the work was in great de- 
mand. Bobby’s heart grew lighter as the vol- 
umes disappeared from his valise, and already 
he had begun to picture the scene which would 
ensue upon his return to the little black house. 
How glad his mother would be to see him, and, 
he dared believe, how happy Annie would be 
as she listened to the account of his journey in 
the State of Maine! Wouldn’t she be aston- 
ished when he told her about the steamboat, 
about the fog, and about the wild region at the 
mouth of the beautiful Kennebec! 

Poor Bobby! the brightest dream often ends 
in sadness ; and a greater trial than any he had 
been called upon to endure was yet in store 
for him. 

As he walked along, thinking of Riverdale 
and its loved ones, Tom came out of a grocery 
store where he had just sold a book. 

“Here, Bob, is a ten-dollar bill. I believe I 
have sold ten books for you,” said Tom, after 
they had walked some distance. “You had 
better keep the money now ; and while I think 
of it, you had better take what I have left of 
my former sales;” and Tom handed him an- 
other ten-dollar bill. 

Bobby noticed that Tom seemed very much 
confused and embarrassed ; but he did not ob- 


164 


NOW OR NEVER. 


serve that the two bills he had handed him 
were on the same bank. 

“Then you had ten dollars left after your 
frolic,” he remarked, as he took the last bill. 

“About that;” and Tom glanced uneasily 
behind him. 

“What is the matter with you, Tom?” asked 
Bobby, who did not know what to make of his 
companion’s embarrassment. 

“Nothing, Bob; let us walk a little faster. 
We had better turn up this street,” continued 
Tom, as, with a quick pace, he took the direc- 
tion indicated. 

Bobby began to fear that Tom had been do- 
ing something wrong; and the suspicion was 
confirmed by seeing two men running with all 
their might towards them. Tom perceived 
them at the same moment. 

“Run!” he shouted, and suiting the action to 
the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the 
street into which he had proposed to turn. 

Bobby did not run, but stopped short where 
he was till the men came up to him. 

“Grab him,” said one of them, “and I will 
catch the other.” 

The man collared Bobby, and in spite of all 
the resistance he could make, dragged him 
down the street to the grocery store in which 
Tom had sold his last book. 

“What do you mean by this?” asked Bobby, 
his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh 
treatment to which he had been subjected. 

“We have got you, my hearty,” replied the 
man, releasing his hold. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


165 


No sooner was the grasp of the man re- 
moved, than Bobby, who determined on this 
as on former occasions to stand upon his inali- 
enable rights, bolted for the door, and ran 
away with all his speed. But his captor was 
too fleet for him, and he was immediately re- 
taken. To make him sure this time, his arms 
were tied behind him, and he was secured to 
the counter of the shop. 

In a few moments the other man returned 
dragging Tom in triumph after him. By this 
time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly 
filled the store. 

Bobby was confounded at the sudden change 
that had come over his fortunes; but seeing 
that resistance would be vain, he resolved to 
submit with the best grace he could. 

“I should like to know what all this means?” 
he inquired, indignantly. 

The crowd laughed in derision. 

“This is the chap that stole the wallet, I will 
be bound,” said one, pointing to Tom, who 
stood in surly silence awaiting his fate. 

“He is the one who came into the store,” 
replied the shopkeeper. 

‘‘I haven’t stole any wallet,” protested 
Bobby, who now understood the whole af- 
fair. 

The names of the two boys were taken, and 
warrants procured for their detention. They 
were searched, and upon Tom was found the 
lost wallet, and upon Bobby two ten-dollar 
bills, which the loser was willing to swear had 
been in the wallet. The evidence therefore 


166 


NOW OR NEVER. 


was conclusive, and they were both sent to 
jail. 

Poor Bobby! the inmate of a prison. 

The law took its course, and in due time 
both of them were sentenced to two years’ 
imprisonment in the State Reform School. 
Bobby was innocent, but he could not make 
his innocence appear. He had been the com- 
panion of Tom, the real thief, and part of the 
money had been found upon his person. Tom 
was too mean to exonerate him, and even had 
the hardihood to exult over his misfortune. 

At the end of three days they reached the 
town in which the Reform School is located, 
and were duly committed for their long term. 

Poor Bobby! 


NOW OR NEVER 


167 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN WHICH BOBBY TAKES FRENCH LEAVE, AND 
CAMPS IN THE WOODS. 

The intelligence of Bobby’s misfortune 
reached Mr. Bayard, in Boston, by means of 
the newspapers. To the country press an 
item is a matter of considerable importance, 
and the alleged offense against the peace and 
dignity of the State of Maine was duly her- 
alded to the inquiring public as a “daring 
robbery.” The reporter who furnished the 
facts in the case for publication was not 
entirely devoid of that essential qualification 
of the country item writer, a lively imagina- 
tion, and was obliged to dress up the parti- 
culars a little, in order to produce the neces- 
sary amount of wonder and indignation. It 
was stated that one of the two young men had 
been prowling about the place for several 
days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling 
books, but really with the intention of stealing 
whatever he could lay his hands upon. It was 
suggested that the boys were in league with 
an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious 
purposes would be defeated by the timely 
arrest of these young villains. The paper 
hinted that further depredations would prob- 


168 


NOW OR NEVER. 


ably be discovered, and warned people to 
beware of ruffians strolling about the country 
in the guise of pedlers. 

The writer of this thrilling paragraph must 
have had reason to believe that he had dis- 
charged his whole duty to the public, and that 
our hero was duly branded as a desperate 
fellow. No doubt he believed Bobby was an 
awful monster; for at the conclusion of his 
remarks he introduced some severe strictures 
on the lenity of the magistrate, because he 
had made the sentence two years, instead of 
five, which the writer thought the atrocious 
crime deserved. But, then, the justice 
differed from him in politics, which may 
account for the severity of the article. 

Mr. Bayard read this precious paragraph 
with mingled grief and indignation. He 
understood the case at a glance. Tom Spicer 
had joined him, and the little merchant had 
been involved in his crime. He was sure that 
Bobby had had no part in stealing the money. 
One so noble and true as he had been could 
not steal, he reasoned. It was contrary to 
experience, contrary to common sense. 

He was very much disturbed. This intelli- 
gence would be a severe blow to the poor 
boy’s mother, and he had not the courage to 
destroy all her bright hopes by writing her 
the terrible truth. He was confident that 
Bobby was innocent, and that his being in the 
company of Tom Spicer had brought the im- 
putation upon him; so he could not let the 
matter take its course. He was determined 


NOW OR NEVER. 


169 


to do something to procure his liberty and 
restore his reputation. 

Squire Lee was in the city that day, and had 
left his store only half an hour before he dis- 
covered the paragraph. He immediately sent 
to his hotel for him, and together they 
devised means to effect Bobby’s liberation. 
The squire was even more confident than Mr. 
Bayard that our hero was innocent of the 
crime charged upon him. They agreed to pro- 
ceed immediately to the State of Maine, and 
use their influence in obtaining his pardon. 
The bookseller was a man of influence in the 
community, and was as well known in Maine 
as in Massachusetts; but to make their appli- 
cation the surer, he procured letters of intro- 
duction from some of the most distinguished 
men in Boston to the governor and other 
official persons in Maine. 

We will leave them now to do the work they 
had so generously undertaken, and return to 
the Reform School, where Bobby and Tom 
were confined. The latter took the matter 
very coolly. He seemed to feel that he 
deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious 
delight in seeing Bobby the companion of his 
captivity. He even had the hardihood to 
remind him of the blow he had struck him 
more than two months before, telling him 
that he had vowed vengeance then, and now 
the time had come. He was satisfied. 

“You know I didn’t steal the money, or 
have anything to do with it, ’ ’ said Bobby. 


170 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Some of it was found upon you, though,” 
sneered Tom, maliciously. 

“You know how it came there, if no one 
else does. ” 

“Of course I do; but I like your company 
too well to get rid of you so easy. ’ * 

“The Lord is with the innocent,” replied 
Bobby; “and something tells me that I shall 
not stay in this place a great while. ' ’ 

“Going to run away?” asked Tom, with in- 
terest, and suddenly dropping his malicious 
look. 

“I know I am innocent of any crime; and I 
know that the Lord will not let me stay here 
a great while. ’ ’ 

“What do you mean to do, Bob?” 

Bobby made no reply; he felt that he 
had had more confidence in Tom than he 
deserved, and he determined to keep his own 
counsel in future. He had a purpose in view. 
His innocence gave him courage ; and perhaps 
he did not feel that sense of necessity for sub- 
mission to the laws of the land which age and 
experience give. He prayed earnestly for 
deliverance from the place in which he was 
confined. He felt that he did not deserve to 
be there ; and though it was a very comfort- 
able place, and the boys fared as well as he 
wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a 
prison. He was unjustly detained, and he not 
only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved 
to work out his own deliverance at the first 
opportunity. 

Knowing that whatever he had would be 


NOW OR NEVER. 


171 


taken from him, he resolved by some means 
to keep possession of the twenty dollars he 
had about him. He had always kept his 
money in a secret place in his jacket to guard 
against accident, and the officers who had 
searched him had not discovered it. But now 
his clothes would be changed. He thought of 
these things before his arrival ; so, when he 
reached the entrance, and got out of the 
wagon, to open the gate, by order of the 
officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a 
hole in the wall. 

It so happened that there was not a suit of 
clothes in the store-room of the institution 
which would fit him; and he was permitted to 
wear his own dress till another should be 
made. After his name and description had 
been entered, and the superintendent had 
read him a lecture upon his future duties, he 
was permitted to join the other boys, who 
were at work on the farm. He was sent with 
half a dozen others to pick up stones in a 
neighboring field. No officer was with them, 
and Bobby was struck with the apparent free- 
dom of the institution, and he so expressed 
himself to his companions. 

“Not so much freedom as you think for,” 
said one, in reply. 

“I should think the fellows would clear 
out. * ’ 

“Not so easy a matter. There is a standing 
reward of five dollars to any one who brings 
back a runaway.” 

“They must catch him first.” 


172 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“No fellow ever got away yet. They 
always caught him before he got ten miles 
from the place. ’ ' 

This was an important suggestion to Bobby, 
who already had a definite purpose in his 
mind. Like a skilful general, he had surveyed 
the ground on his arrival, and was at once 
prepared to execute his design. 

In his conversation with the boys, he ob- 
tained the history of several who had 
attempted to escape, and found that even 
those who got a fair start were taken on some 
public road. He perceived that they were not 
good generals, and he determined to profit by 
their mistake. 

A short distance from the institution was 
what appeared to be a very extensive wood. 
Beyond this, many miles distant, he could see 
the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under 
the setting sun. 

He carefully observed the hills, and ob- 
tained the bearings of various prominent 
objects in the vicinity, which would aid him in 
his flight. The boys gave him all the infor- 
mation in their power about the localities of 
the country. They seemed to feel that he 
was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he 
would not long remain among them; but, 
whatever they thought, they kept their own 
counsel. 

Bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent 
and prompt that he obtained the confidence 
of the superintendent, who began to employ 
him about the house, and in his own family. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


173 


He was sent of errands in the neighborhood, 
and conducted himself so much to the satis- 
faction . of his guardians that he was not 
required to work in the field after the second 
day of his residence on the farm. 

One afternoon he was told that his clothes 
were ready, and that he might put them on the 
next morning. This was a disagreeable an- 
nouncement ; for Bobby saw that, with the uni- 
form of the institution upon his back, his chance 
of escape would be very slight. But about 
sunset, he was sent by the superintendent’s 
lady to deliver a note at a house in the 
vicinity. 

“Now or never!” said Bobby to himself, 
after he had left the house. “Now’s my 
time. ” 

As he passed the gate, he secured his 
money, and placed it in the secret receptacle 
of his jacket. After he had delivered the 
letter, he took the road and hastened off in 
the direction of the wood. His heart beat 
wildly at the prospect of once more meeting 
his mother, after nearly f?ur weeks’ absence. 
Annie Lee would welcome him; she would 
not believe that he was a thief. 

He had been four days an inmate of the 
Reform School, and nothing but the hope of 
soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits 
from drooping. He had not for a moment 
despaired of getting away. 

He reached the entrance to the wood, and 
taking a cart path, began to penetrate its 
hidden depths. The night darkened upon 


174 


NOW OR NEVER. 


him ; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, 
and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery 
song. A certain sense of security now per- 
vaded his mind, for the darkness concealed 
him from the world, and he had placed six 
good miles between him and the prison, as 
he considered it. 

He walked on, however, till he came to 
what seemed to be the end of the wood, and 
he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen 
in the distance before morning. Leaving the 
forest, he emerged into the open country. 
There was here and there a house before him ; 
but the aspect of the country seemed strangely 
familiar to him. He could not understand it. 
He had never been in this part of the country 
before; yet there was a great house with two 
barns by the side of it, which he was positive 
he had seen before. 

He walked across the field a little farther, 
when, to his astonishment and dismay, he 
beheld the lofty turrets of the State Reform 
School. He had been walking iiua circle, and 
had come out of the forest near the place where 
he had entered it. 

Bobby, as the reader has found out by this 
time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and 
instead of despairing or wasting his precious 
time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed 
a little to himself at the blunder, and turned 
back into the woods again. 

“Now or never!” muttered he. “It will 
never do to give it up so. ’ * 

For an hour he walked on, with his eyes 


NOW OR NEVER. 


175 


fixed on a great bright star in the sky. - ' Then 
he found that the cart path crooked round; 
and he discovered where he had made his 
blunder. Leaving the road, he made his way 
in a straight line, still guided by the star, till 
he came to a large sheet of water. 

The sheet of water was an effectual barrier 
to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired 
he did not feel able to walk any more. He 
dreamed himself safe from immediate pursuit 
in this secluded place. He needed rest, and 
he foresaw that the next few days would be 
burdened with fatigue and hardship which he 
must be prepared to meet. 

Bobby was not nice about trifles, and his 
habits were such that he had no fear of taking 
cold. His comfortable bed in the little black 
house was preferable to the cold ground, even 
with the primeval forest for a chamber; but cir- 
cumstances alter cases, and he did not waste 
any vain regrets about the necessity of his posi- 
tion. After finding a secluded spot in the 
wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a 
bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer 
to the Great Guardian above, he lay down to 
rest. The owl screamed his dismal note, and 
the whip-poor-will still repeated his monoto- 
nous song ; but they were good company in the 
solitude of the dark forest. 

He could not go to sleep for a time, so 
strange and exciting were the circumstances 
of his position. He thought of a thousand 
things, but he could not think himself to sleep, 


176 


NOW OR NEVER. 


as he was wont to do. At last nature, worn 
*out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the 
circumstances, and he slept 


NOW OR NEVER. 


177 


CHAPTER XIX. 

IN WHICH BOBBY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE, AND 
GOES TO SEA WITH SAM RAY. 

Nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his 
extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grate- 
ful slumber till the birds had sung their matin 
song, and the sun had risen high in the heav- 
ens. 

Bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his 
feet. For a moment he did not realize where 
he was, or remember the exciting incidents of 
the previous evening. He felt refreshed by 
his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigor- 
ous as though he had slept in his bed at home. 
Rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the 
tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and 
his identity was soon restored to him. He 
was Bobby Bright — but Bobby Bright in 
trouble. He was not the little merchant, but 
the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to 
which he had been doomed. 

It did not take him long to make his toilet, 
which was the only advantage of his primitive 
style of lodging. His first object was to 
examine his position, and ascertain in what 
direction he should continue his flight. He 
could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the 

12 Now or Never 


178 


NOW OR NEVER. 


sheet of water was an impassable barrier. 
Leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh 
beyond which was the wide creek he had seen 
in the night. It was salt water, and he reasoned 
that it could not extend a great way inland. 
His only course was to follow it till he found 
means of crossing it. 

Following the direction of the creek, he kept 
near the margin of the wood till he came to a 
public road. He had some doubts about trust- 
ing himself out of the forest, even for a single 
moment ; so he seated himself upon a rock to 
argue the point. If any one should happen to 
come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a 
clew to his future movements, if not of being 
immediately captured.* 

This was a very strong argument, but, there 
was a stronger one upon the other side. He 
had eaten nothing since dinner on the preced- 
ing day, and he began to feel faint for the 
want of food. On the other side of the creek 
he saw a pasture which looked as though it 
might afford him a few berries ; and he was on 
the point of taking to the road, when he heard 
the rumbling of a wagon in the distance. 

His heart beat with apprehension. Perhaps 
it was some officer of the institution in search 
of him. At any rate it was some one who had 
come from the vicinity of the Reform School, 
and who had probably heard of his escape. 
As it came nearer, he heard the jingling of 
bells; it was the baker. How he longed for a 
loaf of his bread, or some of the precious gin- 
ger-bread he carried in his cart! Hunger 


NOW OR NEVER. 


179 


tempted him to run the risk of exposure. He 
had money; he could buy cakes and bread; 
and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and 
would befriend him in his distress. The 
wagon was close at hand. 

“Now or never,” thought he; but this time 
it was now. The risk was too great. If he 
failed now, two years of captivity were before 
him ; and as for the hunger, he could grin and 
bear it for a while. 

“Now or never;” but this time it was escape 
now or never; and he permitted the baker to 
pass without hailing him. 

He waited half an hour, and then determined 
to take the road till he had crossed the creek. 
The danger was great, but the pangs of hunger 
urged him on. He was sure that there were 
berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, 
carefully watching before and behind to insure 
himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. 
But then a new difficulty presented itself. 
There was a house within ten rods of the 
bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would 
expose him to the most imminent peril. He 
was on the point of retreating, when a man 
came out of the house, and approached him. 
What should he do? It was a trying moment. 
If he ran, the act would expose him to suspic- 
ion. If he went forward, the man might have 
already received a description of him, and 
arrest him. 

He chose the latter course. The instinct of 
his being was to do everything in a straight- 


180 


NOW OR NEVER. 


forward manner, and this probably prompted 
his decision. 

“Good morning, sir,” said he boldly to the 
man. 

“Good morning. Where are you travel- 
ing?” 

This was a hard question. He did not know 
where he was traveling; besides, even in his 
present difficult position, he could not readily 
resort to a lie. 

“Down here a piece,” he replied. 

“Traveled far to-day?” 

“Not far. Good morning, sir;” and Bobby 
resumed his walk. 

“I say, boy, suppose you tell me where you 
are going;” and the man came close to him, 
and deliberately surveyed him from head to 
foot. 

“I can hardly tell you,” replied Bobby sum- 
moning courage for the occasion. 

‘‘Well, I suppose not,” added the man, with 
a meaning smile. 

Bobby felt his strength desert him as he 
realized that he was suspected of being a run- 
away from the Reform School. That smile on 
the man’s face was the knell of hope; and for 
a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his 
soul. But the natural elasticity of his spirits 
soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to 
give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it. 

“I am in a hurry; so I shall have to leave 
you. ’ ’ 

“Not just yet, young man. Perhaps, as you 
don’t know where you are going, you may 


NOW OR NEVER. 


181 


remember what your name is,” continued the 
man, good-naturedly. 

There was a temptation to give a false 
name ; but as it was so strongly beaten into 
our hero that the truth is better than a false- 
hood, he held his peace. 

“Excuse me, sir, but I can’t stop to talk 
now. ’ ’ 

“In a hurry? Well, I dare say you are. I 
suppose there is no doubt but you are Master 
Robert Bright.” 

“Not the least, sir; 1 haven’t denied it yet, 
and I am not ashamed of my name, ’ ’ replied 
Bobby, with a good deal of spirit. 

“That’s honest; I like that.” 

“Honesty is the best policy, ’ ” added Bobby. 

“That’s cool for a rogue, anyhow. You 
ought to thought of that afore. ’ ’ 

“I did.” 

“And stole the money?” 

“I didn’t. I never stole a penny in my life. ” 

“Come, I like that.” 

“It is the truth. ” 

“But they won’t believe it over to the Re- 
form School,” laughed the man. 

“They will one of these days, perhaps.” 

“You are a smart youngster; but I don’t 
know as I can make five dollars any easier than 
by taking you back where you came from. ” 

“Yes, you can,” replied Bobby, promptly. 

“Can I?” 

“Yes. ” 

“How?” 

“By letting me go.” 


182 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“Eh ; you talk flush. I suppose you mean to 
give me your note, payable when the Ken- 
nebec dries up. ” 

“Cash on the nail,” replied Bobby. “You 
look like a man with a heart in your bosom. ” 
— Bobby stole this passage from “The Way- 
farer.” 

“I reckon I have. The time hasn’t come 
yet Sam Ray could see a fellow-creature in 
distress and not help him out. But to help a 
thief off ” 

“We will argue that matter,” interposed 
Bobby. “I can prove to you beyond a doubt 
that I am innocent of the crime charged upon 
me.” 

“You don’t look like a bad boy, I must say. ” 

“But, Mr. Ray, I’m hungry; I haven’t eaten 
a mouthful since yesterday noon. ’ ’ 

“Thunder! You don’t say so!” exclaimed 
Sam Ray. “I never could bear to see a man 
hungry, much more a boy ; so come along to 
my house and get something to eat, and we 
will talk about the other matter afterwards.” 

Sam Ray took Bobby to the little old house 
in which he dwelt ; and in a short time his wife 
who expressed her sympathy for the little 
fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an 
abundant repast upon the table. Our hero 
did ample justice to it, and when he had fin- 
ished he felt like a new creature. 

“Now, Mr. Ray, let me tell you my story,” 
said Bobby. 

“I don’t know as it’s any use. Now you 
have eaten my bread and butter, I don’t feel 


NOW OR NEVER. 


183 


like being mean to you. If anybody else wants 
to carry you back, they may; I won’t.” 

“But you shall hear me;” and Bobby pro- 
ceeded to deliver his “plain, unvarnished 
tale. ” 

When he had progressed but a little way in 
the narrative, the noise of an approaching 
vehicle was heard. Sam looked out of the 
window, as almost everybody does in the 
country when a carriage passes. 

“By thunder! It’s the Reform School 
wagon!” exclaimed he. “This way, boy!” 
and the good-hearted man thrust him into his 
chamber, bidding him get under the bed. 

The carriage stopped at the house ; but S«^m 
evaded a direct reply, and the superintendent 
— for it was he — proceeded on his search. 

“Heaven bless you, Mr. Ray!” exclaimed 
Bobby when he came out of • the chamber, as 
the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks. 

“O, you will find Sam Ray all right,” said 
he, warmly pressing Bobby’s proffered hand. 
“I ain’t quite a heathen, though some folks 
round here think so. ’ ’ 

“You are an angel!” 

“Not exactly,” laughed Sam. 

Our hero finished his story, and confirmed it 
by exhibiting his account book and some other 
papers which he had retained. Sam Ray was 
satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw Tom 
Spicer he would certainly “lick” him for his 
sake. 

“Now, sonny, I like you; I will be sworn 
you are a good fellow ; and I mean to help 


184 


NOW OR NEVER. 


you off. So just come along with me. I make 
my living by browsing round, hunting and 
fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and 
then. You see, I have got a good boat down 
by the creek, and I shall just put you aboard 
and take you anywhere you have a mind to go. *' 

“May Heaven reward you!’’ cried Bobby, 
almost overcome by this sudden and unex- 
pected kindness. 

“O I don’t want no reward; only when you 
get to be a great man — and I am dead sure you 
will be a great man — just think now and then 
of Sam Ray, and it’s all right.” 

“I shall remember you with gratitude as long 
as I live.” 

Sam Ray took his gun on his shoulder, and 
Bobby the box of provision which Mrs. Ray 
had put up, and they left the house. At the 
bridge they got into a little skiff, and Sam took 
the oars. After they had passed a bend in the 
creek which concealed them from the road, 
Bobby felt secure from further molestation. 

Sam pulled about two miles down the creek, 
where it widened into a broad bay, near the 
head of which was anchored a small schooner. 

“Now, my hearty, nothing short of Uncle 
Sam’s whole navy can get you away from 
me,” said Sam, as he pulled alongside the 
schooner. 

“You have been very kind to me.” 

“All right, sonny. Now tumble aboard.” 

Bobby jumped upon the deck of the little 
craft, and Sam followed him, after making 
fast the skiff to the schooner’s moorings. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


185 


In a few minutes the little vessel was stand- 
ing down the bay with “a fresh wind and a 
flowing sheet. ” Bobby, who had never been 
in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no 
measured terms expressed his admiration of 
the working of the trim little craft. 

“Now, sonny, where shall we go?” asked' 
Sam, as they emerged from the bay into the 
broad ocean. 

“I don’t know,” replied Bobby. “I want to 
get back to Boston. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps I can put you aboard of some 
ooaster bound there.” 

“That will do nicely.” 

“I will head towards Boston, and if I don’t 
overhaul anything, I will take you there my- 
self. ’ ’ 

“Is this boat big enough to go so far?” 

“She’ll stand anything short of a West India 
hurricane. You ain’t afeerd, are you?” 

“O, no ; I like it. ” 

The big waves now tossed the little vessel 
up and down like a feather, and the huge sea 
broke upon the bow, deluging her deck witn 
floods of water. Bobby had unlimited confi- 
dence in Sam Ray, and felt as much at home 
as though he had been “cradled upon the 
briny deep.” There was an excitement in 
the scene which accorded with his nature, and 
the perils which he had so painfully pictured 
on the preceding night were all born into the 
most lively joy. 

They ate their dinners from the provision 
box; Sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale 


186 


NOW OR NEVER. 


he told of adventure by sea and land. Bobby 
felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of 
parting with his rough but good-hearted 
friend. They were now far out at sea, and 
the night was coming on. 

“Now, sonny, you had better turn in and 
take a snooze; you didn’t rest much last 
night. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am not sleepy ; but there is one thing I 
will do;’’ and Bobby drew from his secret 
receptacle his roll of bills. 

“Put them up, sonny,” said Sam. 

“I want to make you a present of ten 
dollars.’’ 

“You can’t do it.’’ 

“Nay, but to please me.” 

“No, sir!” 

“Well, then, let me send it to your good 
wife.” 

“You can’t do that, nuther, ” replied Sam, 
gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner 
ahead of him. 

“You must; your good heart made you lose 
five dollars, and I insist upon making it up to 
you. ’ ’ 

“You can’t do it.” 

“I shall feel bad if you don’t take it. You 
see I have twenty dollars here, and I would 
like to give you the whole of it.” 

“Not a cent, sonny. I ain’t a heathen. 
That schooner ahead is bound for Boston, I 
reckon. ” 

“I shall be sorry to part with you, Mr. Ray. ” 

“Just my sentiment. I hain’t seen a 


NOW OR NEVER. 


187 


youngster afore for many a day that I took 
a fancy to, and I hate to let you go. ’ ’ 

“We shall meet again.” 

“I hope so. ” 

“Please to take this money.” 

“No;” and Sam shook his head so resolutely 
that Bobby gave up the point. 

As Sam had conjectured, the lumber 
schooner was bound to Boston. Her captain 
readily agreed to take our hero on board, and 
he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend. 

“Good-by, Mr. Ray,” said Bobby, as the 
schooner filled away. “Take this to remember 
me by.” 

It was his jackknife; but Sam did not dis- 
cover the ten-dollar bill, which was shut be- 
neath the blade, till it was too late to return it. 

Bobby did not cease to wave his hat to Sam 
till his little craft disappeared in the darkness. 


188 


NOW OR NEVER. 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN WHICH THE CLOUDS BLOW OVER, AND BOBBY IS 
HIMSELF AGAIN. 

Fortunately for Bobby, the wind began to 
blow very heavily soon after he went on board 
of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was 
too much engaged in working his vessel to 
ask many questions. He was short handed, 
and though our hero was not much of a sailor, 
he made himself useful to the best of his 
ability. Though the wind was heavy, it was 
not fair; and it was not till the third morning 
after his parting with Sam Ray that the 
schooner arrived off Boston Light. The 
captain then informed him that, as the tide did 
not favor him, he might not get up to the city 
for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a 
hurry, he would put him on board a pilot 
boat which he saw standing up the channel. 

“Thank you, captain; you are very kind, 
but it would give you a great deal of trouble, ’ ’ 
said Bobby. 

“None at all. We must wait here till the 
tide turns ; so we have nothing better to do. ’ ’ 

“I should be very glad to get up this 
morning. ’ ’ 


NOW OR NEVER. 


189 


“You shall, then;” and the captain ordered 
two men to get out the jolly boat. 

“I will pay my passage now, if you please. ” 
“That is paid. ” 

“Paid?” 

“I should say you had worked your passage. 
You have done very well, and I shall not 
charge you anything.” 

“I expected to pay my passage, captain; but 
if you think I have done enough to pay it, 
why I have nothing to say, only that I am 
very much obliged to you. ' ’ 

“You ought to be a sailor, young man; you 
were cut out for one.” 

“I like the sea, though I never saw it till a 
few weeks since. But I suppose my mother 
would not let me go to sea. ” 

“I suppose not; mothers are always afraid 
of salt water. ’ ’ 

By this time the jolly boat was alongside; 
and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped 
into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot 
boat, which had come up into the wind at the 
captain’s hail. Bobby was kindly received on 
board, and in a couple of hours landed at the 
wharf in Boston. 

With a beating heart he made his way up 
into Washington Street. He felt strangely; 
his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware 
that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened 
upon him. He could not doubt but that the 
story of his alleged crime had reached the city, 
and perhaps gone to his friends in Riverdale. 
How his poor mother must have wept to think 


190 


NOW OR NEVER. 


her son was a thief! No; she never could 
have thought that. She knew he would not 
steal, if no one else did. And Annie Lee — 
would she ever smile upon him again? Would 
she welcome him to her father’s house so 
gladly as she had done in the past? He could 
bring nothing to establish his innocence but his 
previous character. Would not Mr. Bayard 
frown upon him? Would not even Ellen be 
tempted to forget the service he had ren- 
dered her? 

Bobby had thought of all these things before 
— on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the 
watches of the tempestuous night on board the 
schooner. But now, when he was almost in 
the presence of those he loved and respected, 
they had more force, and they nearly over- 
whelmed him. 

“I am innocent,” he repeated to himself, 
“and why need I fear? My good Father in 
heaven will not let me be wronged.” 

Yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and 
when he reached the store of Mr. Bayard, he 
passed by, dreading to face the friend who had 
been so kind to him. He could not bear even 
to be suspected of a crime by him. 

“Now or never,” said he, as he turned 
round. “I will know my fate at once, and 
then make the best of it.” 

Mustering all his courage, he entered the 
store. Mr. Timmins was not there ; so he was 
spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark 
from him. 

“Hallo, Bobby!” exclaimed the gentlemanly 


NOW OR NEVER. 


191 


salesman, whose acquaintance he had made 
on his first visit. 

“Good morning, Mr. Bigelow,” replied 
Bobby with as much boldness as he could 
command. 

“I didn’t know as I should ever see you 
again. You have been gone a long while.” 

“Longer than usual,” answered Bobby with 
a blush ; for he considered the remark of the 
salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. 
“Is Mr. Bayard in?” 

“He is — in his office.” 

Bobby’s feet would hardly obey the man- 
date of his will, and with a faltering step he 
entered the private room of the bookseller. 
Mr. Bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the 
morning paper, and did not observe his en- 
trance. With his heart up in his throat, and 
almost choking him, he stood for several 
minutes upon the threshold. He almost feared 
to speak, dreading the severe frown with 
which he expected to be received. Suspense, 
however, was more painful than condemna- 
tion, and he brought his resolution up to the 
point. 

“Mr. Bayard,” said he, in faltering tones. 

“Bobby!” exclaimed the bookseller, drop- 
ping his paper upon the floor, and jumping 
upon his feet as though an electric current 
had passed through his frame. 

Grasping our hero’s hand, he shook it with 
so much energy that, under any other circum- 
stances, Bobby would have thought it hurt 
him. He did not think so now. 


192 


NOW OR NEVER. 


“My poor Bobby! I am delighted to see 
you!” continued Mr. Bayard. 

Bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a 
child, as he was. The unexpected kindness of 
this reception completely overwhelmed him. 

“Don’t cry, Bobby; I know all about it;” 
and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away 
his tears. “It was a stroke of misfortune; 
but it is all right now.” 

But Bobby could not help crying, and the 
more Mr. Bayard attempted to console him, 
the more he wept. 

“I am innocent, Mr. Bayard,” he sobbed. 

“I know you are, Bobby; and all the world 
knows you are. ’ ’ 

“I am ruined now; I shall never dare to 
hold my head up again. ’ ’ 

“Nonsense, Bobby; you will hold your head 
the higher. You have behaved like a hero.” 

“I ran away from the State Reform School, 
sir. I was innocent, and I would rather have 
died than stayed there. ’ ’ 

“I know all about it, my young friend. 
Now dry your tears, and we will talk it all 
over. ’ ’ 

Bobby blowed and sputtered a little more; 
but finally he composed himself, and took a 
chair by Mr. Bayard’s side. The bookseller 
then drew from his pocket a ponderous docu- 
ment, with a big official seal upon it, and 
exhibited it to our hero. 

“Do you see this, Bobby? It is your free 
and unconditional pardon.” 

“Sir! Why ” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


193 


“It will all end well, you may depend.” 

Bobby was amazed. His pardon? But it 
would not restore his former good name. He 
felt that he was branded as a felon. It was 
not mercy, but justice, that he wanted. 

“Truth is mighty, and will prevail,” con- 
tinued Mr. Bayard; “and this document 
restores your reputation. ’ ’ 

“I can hardly believe that.” 

“Can’t you? Hear my story then. When 
I read in one of the Maine papers the account 
of your misfortune, I felt that you had been 
grossly wronged. You were coupled with that 
Tom Spicer, who is the most consummate 
little villain I ever saw, and I understood your 
situation. Ah, Bobby, your only mistake was 
in having anything to do with that fellow.” 

‘'I left him at Brunswick because he began 
to behave badly; but he joined me again at 
Augusta. He had spent nearly all his money, 
and did not know what to do. I pitied him, 
and meant to do something to help him out of 
the scrape. ’ ’ 

“Generous as ever! I have heard all about 
this before.” 

“Indeed; who told you?” 

“Tom Spicer himself.” 

“Tom?” asked Bobby, completely mystified. 

“Yes, Tom; you see, when I heard about 
your trouble, Squire Lee and myself *’ 

“Squire Lee? Does he know about it?” 

“He does; and you may depend upon it, he 
thinks more highly of you than ever before. 
He and I immediately went down to Augusta 

13 Now or Never 


194 


NOW OR NEVER. 


to inquire into the matter. We called upon 
the governor of the state, who said that he had 
seen you, and bought a book of you.’' 

“Of me!” exclaimed Bobby, startled to think 
he had sold a book to a governor. 

“Yes, you called at his house; probably you 
did not know that he was the chief magistrate 
of the state. At any rate, he was very much 
pleased with you, and sorry to hear of youi 
misfortune. Well, we followed your route ta 
Brunswick, where we ascertained how Torn 
had conducted. In a week he established 3 
very bad reputation there ; but nothing could 
be found to implicate you. The squire testi- 
fied to your uniform good behavior, and espe- 
cially to your devotion to your mother. In 
short, we procured your pardon, and hastened 
with it to the State Reform School. 

“On our arrival, we learned, to our surprise 
and regret, that you had escaped from the in- 
stitution on the preceding evening. Every 
effort was made to retake you, but without suc- 
cess. Ah, Bobby, you managed that well. ’ ’ 

“They didn’t look in the right place,” re- 
plied Bobby, with a smile, for he began to feel 
happy again. 

“By the permission of the superintendent, 
Squire Lee and myself examined Tom Spicer. 
He is a great rascal. Perhaps he thought we 
would get him out ; so he made a clean breast 
of it, and confessed that you had no hand in 
the robbery and that you knew nothing about 
it. He gave you the two bills on purpose to 
implicate you in the crime. We wrote down 


NOW OR NEVER. 


195 


his statement, and had it sworn to before a 
justice of the peace. You shall read it by-and- 
by. ” 

‘ ‘May Heaven reward you for your kindness 
to a poor boy!” exclaimed Bobby, the tears 
flowing down his cheeks again. “I did not 
deserve so much from you, Mr. Bayard.” 

“Yes, you did, and a thousand times more. 
I was very sorry you had left the institution, 
and I waited in the vicinity till they said there 
was no probability that you would be captured. 
The most extraordinary efforts were used to 
find you ; but there was not a person to be 
found who had seen or heard of you. I was 
very much alarmed about you, and offered a 
hundred dollars for any information concern- 
ing you.” 

“I am sorry you had so much trouble. I 
wish I had known you were there.” 

“How did you get off?” 

Bobby briefly related the story of his escape, 
and Mr. Bayard pronounced his skill worthy of 
his genius. 

“Sam Ray is a good fellow; we will remem- 
ber him, ’ ’ added the bookseller, when he had 
finished. 

“I shall remember him; and only that I 
shall be afraid to go into the State of Maine 
after what has happened, I should pay him a 
visit one of these days.” 

“There you are wrong. Those who know 
your story would sooner think of giving you a 
public reception, than of saying or doing any- 


196 


NOW OR NEVER. 


thing to injure your feelings. Those who have 
suffered unjustly are always lionized.” 

“But no one will know my story, only that I 
was sent to prison for stealing.” 

“There you are mistaken again. We put 
articles in all the principal papers, stating the 
facts in the case, and establishing your inno- 
cence beyond a peradventure. Go to Augusta 
now, Bobby, and you will be a lion. ’ ’ 

“I am sure I had no idea of getting out of 
the scrape so easily as this. ’ ' 

“Innocence shall triumph, my young 
friend.” 

“What does mother say?” asked Bobby, his 
countenance growing sad. 

“I do not know. We returned from Maine 
only yesterday; but Squire Lee will satisfy 
her. All that can worry her, as it has worried 
me, will be her fears for your safety when she 
hears of your escape.” 

“I will soon set her mind at ease upon that 
point; I will take the noon train home.” 

“A word about business before you go. I 
discharged Timmins about a week ago, and I 
have kept his place for you.” 

“By gracious!” exclaimed Bobby, thrown 
completely out of his propriety by this an- 
nouncement. 

“I think you will do better, in the long run, 
than you would to travel about the country. 
I was talking with Ellen about it, and she says 
it shall be so. Timmins’ salary was five hun- 
dred dollars a year, and you shall have the 
same. ” 


NOW OR NEVER. 


197 


“Five hundred dollars a year!” ejaculated 
Bobby amazed at the vastness of the sum. 

“Very well for a boy of thirteen, Bobby.” 

“I was fourteen last Sunday, sir.” 

“I would not give any other boy so much; 
but you are worth it, and you shall have it.” 

Probably Mr. Bayard’s gratitude had some- 
thing to do with this munificent offer; but he 
knew that our hero possessed abilities and en- 
ergy far beyond his years. He further in- 
formed Bobby that he should have a room at 
his house, and that Ellen was delighted with 
the arrangement he proposed. 

The gloomy, threatening clouds were all 
rolled back, and floods of sunshine streamed in 
upon the soul of the little merchant; but in the 
midst of his rejoicing he remembered that his 
own integrity had carried him safely through 
the night of sorrow and doubt. He had been 
true to himself, and now, in the hour of his 
great triumph, he realized that, if he had been 
faithless to the light within him, his laurel 
would have been a crown of thorns. 

He was happy — very happy. What made 
him so? Not his dawning prosperity; not the 
favor of Mr. Bayard; not the handsome salary 
he was to receive ; for all these things would 
have been but dross if he had sacrificed his in- 
tegrity, his love of truth and uprightness. He 
had been true to himself, and unseen angels 
had held him up. He had been faithful, and 
the consciousness of his fidelity to principle 
made a heaven within his heart. 

It was arranged that he should enter upon 


198 


NOW OR NEVER. 


the duties of his new situation on the following 
week. After settling with Mr. Bayard, he 
found he had nearly seventy dollars in his pos- 
session ; so that in a pecuniary point of view, 
if in no other, his eastern excursion was per- 
fectly satisfactory. 

By the noon train he departed for Riverdale, 
and in two hours more he was folded to his 
mother’s heart. Mrs. Bright wept for joy now, 
as she had before wept in misery when she 
heard of her son’s misfortune. It took him all 
the afternoon to tell his exciting story to her, 
and she was almost beside herself when Bobby 
told her about his new situation. 

After tea he hastened over to Squire Lee’s; 
and my young readers can imagine what a 
warm reception he had from father and daugh- 
ter. For the third time that day he narrated 
his adventures in the east; and Annie declared 
they were better than any novel she had ever 
read. Perhaps it was because Bobby was the 
hero. It was nearly ten o’clock before he fin- 
ished his story; and when he left, the squire 
made him promise to come over the next day. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


199 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN WHICH BOBBY STEPS OFF THE STAGE, AND 
THE AUTHOR MUST FINISH “NOW OR NEVER.” 

The few days which Bobby remained at 
home before entering upon the duties of hia 
new situation were agreeably filled up in call- 
ing upon his many friends, and in visiting 
those pleasant spots in the woods and by the 
river, which years of association had rendered 
dear to him. His plans for the future, too, 
occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch 
as his path of duty was already marked out, 
these plans were but little more than a series 
of fond imaginings; in short, little more than 
day dreams. I have before hinted that Bobby 
was addicted to castle building, and I should 
pity the man or boy who was not — who had no 
bright dream of future achievements, of future 
usefulness. “As a man thinketh, so is he,” the 
Psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspira- 
tion which wrote it. What a man pictures as 
his ideal of that which is desirable in this world 
and the world to come, he will endeavor to 
attain. Even if it be no higher aim than the 
possession of wealth or fame, it is good and 
worthy as far as it goes. It fires his brain, it 
nerves his arm. It stimulates him to action, 


200 


NOW OR NEVER. 


and action is the soul of progress. We must 
all work; and this world were cold and dull if 
it had no bright dreams to be realized. What 
Napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, 
and the monarchs of Europe trembled before 
him. What Howard wished to be, he labored 
to be ; his k ideal was beautiful and true, and 
he raised a throne which will endure through 
eternity. 

Bobby dreamed great things. That bright 
picture of the little black house transformed 
into a white cottage, with green blinds, and 
surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest 
object; and before Mrs. Bright was aware 
that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the 
painters were upon the spot. 

“Now or never,” replied Bobby to his moth- 
er’s remonstrance. “This is your home, and 
it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if 
I can make it so. ” 

Then he had to dream about his business in 
Boston ; and I am not sure but that he fancied 
himself a rich merchant, like Mr. Bayard, liv- 
ing in an elegant house in Chestnut Street, 
and having clerks and porters to do as he bade 
them. A great many young men dream such 
things, and though they seem a little silly when 
spoken out loud, they are what wood and water 
are to the steam engine — they are the main- 
spring of action. Some are stupid enough to 
dream about these things, and spend their time 
in idleness and dissipation, waiting for “the 
good time coming.” It will never come to 
them. They are more likely to die in the 


NOW OR NEVER. 


201 


almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in 
their carriages; for constant exertion is the 
price of success. 

Bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his 
capacity during these few days of respite from 
labor. He spent a liberal share of his time at 
Squire Lee’s, where he was almost as much at 
home as in his mother’s house. Annie read 
Moore’s Poems to him, till he began to have 
quite a taste for poetry himself. 

In connection with Tom Spicer’s continued 
absence, which had to be explained, Bobby’s 
trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the 
consequence was, that he became a lion in 
Riverdale. The minister invited him to tea, 
as well as other prominent persons, for the 
sake of hearing his story ; but Bobby declined 
the polite invitations from sheer bashfulness. 
He had not brass enough to make himself a 
hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey 
was anything but pleasant to him. 

On Monday morning he took the early train 
for Boston, and assumed the duties of his sit- 
uation in Mr. Bayard’s store. But as I have 
carried my hero through the eventful period 
of his life, I cannot dwell upon his subsequent 
career. He applied himself with all the en- 
ergy of his nature to the discharge of his du- 
ties*. Early in the morning and late in the 
evening he was at his post. Mr. Bigelow was 
his friend from the first, and gave him all the 
instruction he required. His intelligence and 
quick perception soon enabled him to master 
the details of the business, and by the time 


202 


NOW OR NEVER. 


he was fifteen, he was competent to perform 
any service required of him. 

By the advice of Mr. Bayard, he attended an 
evening school for six montns in the year, to 
acquire a knowledge of book-keeping, and to 
compensate for the opportunities of which he 
had been necessarily deprived in t his earlier 
youth. He took Dr. Franklin for his model, 
and used all his spare time in reading good i 
books, and in obtaining such information and 
such mental culture as would fit him to be, 
not only a good merchant, but a good and true 
man. 

Every Saturday night he went home to 
Riverdale to spend the Sabbath with his 
mother. The little black house no longer 
existed, for it had become the little paradise 
of which he had dreamed, only that the house i 
seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the 
fence more attractive than his fancy had pict- ! 
ured them. His mother, after a couple of 
years, at Bobby’s earnest pleadings, ceased to 
close shoes and take in washing ; but she had 
enough and to spare, for her son’s "salary was 
now six hundred dollars. His kind employer 
boarded him for nothing (much against Bobby’s 
will, I must say), so that every month he 
carried to his mother thirty dollars, which 
more than paid her expenses. 


Eight years have passed by since Bobby — we 
beg his pardon ; he is now Mr. Robert Bright 


NOW OR NEVER. 


203 


—entered the store of Mr. Bayard. He has 
passed from the boy to the man. Over the 
street door a new sign has taken the place of 
the old one, and the passer-by reads, — 

BAYARD & BRIGHT 

BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS. 

The senior partner resorts to his counting- 
room every morning from the force of habit; 
but he takes no active part in the business. 
Mr. Bright has frequent occasion to ask his 
advice, though everything is directly managed 
by him ; and the junior is accounted one of the 
ablest, but at the same time one of the most 
honest, business men in the city. His integ- 
rity has never been sacrificed, even to the 
emergencies of trade. The man is what the 
boy was; and we can best sum up the results 
of his life by saying that he has been true to 
himself, true to his friends, and true to his 
God. 

Mrs. Bright is still living at the little white 
cottage, happy in herself and happy in her 
children. Bobby — we mean Mr. Bright — has 
hardly missed going to Riverdale on a Satur- 
day night since he left home, eight years 
before. He has the same partiality for those 
famous apple pies, and his mother would as 
soon think of being without bread as being 
without apple pies when he comes home. 

Of course Squire Lee and Annie were 


204 


NOW OR NEVER. 


always glad to see him when he came to River- . 
dale ; and for two years it had been common 
talk in Riverdale that our hero did not go home \ 
on Sunday evening when the clock struck 
nine. But as this is a forbidden topic, we will 
ask the reader to go with us to Mr. Bayard’s 
house in Chestnut Street. 

What! Annie Lee here? 

No; but as you are here, allow me to intro- 
duce Mrs. Robert Bright. 

They were married a few months before, and 
Mr. Bayard insisted that the happy couple 
should make their home at his house. 

But where is Ellen Bayard? 

O, she is Mrs. Bigelow now, and her hus- 
band is at the head of a large book establish- 
ment in New York. 

Bobby’s dream had been realized, and he 
was the happiest man in the world — at least 
he thought so, which is just the same thing. ' 
He had been successful in business; his wife 
— the friend and companion of his youth, the 
brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy 
had woven — had been won, and the future 
glowed with brilliant promises. 

He had been successful; but neither nor all 
of the things we have mentioned constituted 
his highest and truest success — not his business 
prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in 
store for him, not his good name among men, 
not even the beautiful and loving wife who had 
cast her lot with his to the end of time. These 
were successes, great and worthy, but not the 
highest success. 


NOW OR NEVER. 


205 


He had made himself a man, — this was his 
real success, — a true, a Christian man. He 
had lived a noble life. He had reared the lofty 
structure of his manhood upon a solid founda- 
tion — principle. It is the rock which the 
winds of temptation and the rains of selfish- 
ness cannot move. 

Robert Bright is happy because he is good. 
Tom Spicer, now in the state prison, is un- 
happy, — not because he is in the state prison, 
but because the evil passions of his nature are 
at war with the peace of his soul. He has fed 
the good that was within him upon straw and 
husks, and starved it out. He is a body only ; 
the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. He 
loves no one, and no one loves him. 

During the past summer, Mr. Bright and his 
lady took a journey “down east.” Annie 
insisted upon visiting the State Reform School ; 
and her husband drove through the forest by 
which he had made his escape on that eventful 
night. Afterwards they called upon Sam 
^ Ray, who had been “dead sure that Bobby 
would one day be a great man.” He was 
; about the same person, and was astonished 
! and delighted when our hero introduced him- 
I self. 

They spent a couple of hours in talking over 
the past, and at his departure, Mr. Bright 
made him a handsome present in such a deli- 
cate manner that he could not help accept- 
ing it. 

Squire Lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, 
and is never so happy as when Annie and her 


206 


NOW OR NEVER. 


husband come to Riverdale to spend the Sab- 
bath. He is fully of the opinion that Mr. 
Bright is the greatest man on the western 
continent, and he would not be in the least ; 
surprised if he should be elected president of ; 
the United States one of these days. 

The little merchant is a great merchant now. 
But more than this, he is a good man. He 
has formed his character, and he will probably 
die as he has lived. 

Reader, if you have any good work to do, 
do it now; for with you it may be “Now or 
Never.” 


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